


You Have Infinite Choice

by R_Gunns



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Dark, Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Alternate Universe - World War II, Angst, Deaf Character, F/F, F/M, Fate & Destiny, Fluff, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Multi, Other, Reincarnation, Religion, Religious Conflict, Rimming, Roman Catholicism, Trans Character, World War II, trying to tag for a reincarnation au is nigh impossible
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-12
Updated: 2015-03-11
Packaged: 2018-03-12 03:22:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 23,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3341693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R_Gunns/pseuds/R_Gunns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They don't have control, aren't Gods or spirits or beings with any power. But they <i>are </i>something. </p><p>(A reincarnation AU that follows a dozen lives amongst thousands.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The fic is basically a series of snippets of different reincarnations of Steve and Bucky (noted by a number and a title) that aren't really chronological, interspaced with one single reincarnation that is chronological and is noted by roman numerals. There are copious warnings for this fic, and I'll put a thing about it in the end notes-- please be careful.
> 
> Anyway, without further ado, an incredibly cliched mess of a reincarnation AU:

** Part One: Bucky **

**X.**

James Buchanan Barnes has been following Steven Grant Rogers around since the very first atoms came together to create life. (Neither of these names are, of course, their real names. Those, they cherish and protect, only really talk of them when the burden of immortality begins to press against them and they need to find comfort in a constant. Constants are rare for them, beyond a few little things. Most slip from their grasp, no matter how hard they try to hold on.)

But he’s getting ahead of himself. What he meant to say, then, before melancholy overtook him, was that he’d been following Steve for a very, very long time. It's an understatement to compare Steve’s nature to a sun (even if Bucky often feels like a sunflower in his presence; his body, whatever body it may be, turns towards him and relishes in the warmth that Steve radiates), or a lamp in a dark room (which makes Bucky the moth, unable to turn away even if he wanted to) but words are inadequate as always when trying to describe Steve Rogers.

If someone were to ask Bucky what it was exactly that made him follow without question, he probably could not answer you. He would bite at his lip, a habit he’d picked up only very recently, in the last century, maybe-- and say something like _It’s Steve_ , or more than likely, _Why_ _wouldn’t I?_ But no one asks and so he does not answer, only thinks sometimes, that he is selfishly glad that he has an eternity of this, of following Steve through the passing of time and of loving him and knowing him in more bodies than he could ever count.

He knows (in the same way he knows the heady touch of Steve Rogers’ heart beating against his own-- intimately and without question) that he will continue to follow Steve, just as he has since The Beginning, until the atoms that form his very being fall apart and become something new, until his consciousness splinters and cracks clean through. And even then, even when there is nothing left of him but the dust motes that settle on Steve’s skin, the breeze through his hair, he’ll still follow.

But he’s getting ahead of himself again.

 

**1\. The rock’ll be a tree**

They are bugs of some sort, live barely long enough to see more than half a dozen sunsets between them. Bucky is something that floats and twitches, has more leg than consciousness, really, and Steve is-- well, later they see the irony in Steve being a caterpillar, thin and prickly, that curls up inside his cocoon and comes out the other end all dusty and beautiful (Steve has gone through a variation of this process a fair number of times by this point. Not every life, not even most, but enough). So they don’t do much of anything, tiny brains not self-aware enough to be conscious of any of their previous lives, just float on the breeze and think _food sleep food_ till they both end up inside a house.

At this point in recalling the story a few hundred lives later, Steve (currently going by Steph) grabs Bucky’s hand and pats it in a way that is really rather patronizing, says something like,

“I know how hard this is for you.” Which she most certainly _does not_ , since she died a quick death from the swat of a shoe. So when Bucky is desperately begging Steph to ‘ _Get rid of the fucking spider!_ ’ he feels righteous in his overwhelming fear of the goddamn things, since he was wrapped up and _eaten_ by one of the bastards. But Steph, the asshole, just smirks at him, fake-seriousness gone in favor of squinty-eyed glee. To which Bucky absolutely does not whine,

“Steph no, don’t laugh, you _know_ why I hate spiders. I have genuine reasons to!”

“You understand that you’re like, a thousand times bigger than they are now, right?” She says.

“That is _not_ the point,” Bucky hisses, “It was traumatic for me. Like you with the sunflowers,” he adds, which makes Steph shudder and glare at him. But ultimately she does remove the spider from their shared flat and later on runs her fingers through his hair when he’s curled up against her chest and says,

“You understand I was messing with you right, Buck? I know you don’t like ‘em.” And he does understand, didn’t mind at all really, so he mumbles confirmation before he falls asleep, dreams of dusty moth wings and floating on a breeze and there is not a single spider in sight.

 

**2\. The Schwarzschild radius**

In a universe where the rules of physics are steady and unwavering he remembers reading a book once, about black holes. It had said,

 

 

> _‘Theoretically, anything could become a black hole. In 1915 Karl Schwarzschild devised a formula for working out the radius of a sphere that any one object must be condensed into in order for it to become a black hole. He named it ‘The Schwarzschild radius.’ The formula is as follows: Rs=2GM/C2 where G is Newton’s Gravitational constant, M is the mass of the object in Kilograms, and C the speed of light. Rs is therefore the radius. So a human with a weight of 55 kg must have a radius less than 0.1 nm (nanometre) before it could deform space-time and become a black hole. A black hole with a mass that small would blink in and out of existence within less than a second.'_

-A Beginners Guide to Black Holes, R. Zadden (2001)

 

But that was just a technicality in that universe. It could happen, sure, but it never would. The odds were too low, their universe too stable.

In a world that is simultaneously very similar and yet so utterly different from that one though, Schwarzschild’s theory becomes a common fact of life. The people that live here experience death far differently. They a born, they live for as long as fate permits them to, and then (if they haven’t already by other means) they die, their bodies falling apart to become miniscule black holes that are there and then gone again before a second could pass. It should be brutal, should leave the planet’s inhabitants curled in fear of what was to come. But instead they revel in it, celebrate their death with carnivals and parades where people sing old songs of existence and nonexistence, bumper stickers are bought with slogans on them like _my black hole is bigger than yours_ , or _honk if you’re a_ hole _lot of fun_! It is an excitement, for them- to be able to cease to exist in this way before the dullness of a normal death could take them.

So you are biding your time, not yet having met Steve in this life (which sometimes takes a while), when it happens: a dull throbbing in your fingers, an insistent itch that never quite passes over into pain. You knows what this means, but you’ve not yet met Steve, so it can’t be your time, not yet. You ignore it.

You notices your surroundings for the first time then, the gaudy décor that comes with not-quite upmarket hotels, leaning towards a theme of ‘baroque’ but not quite making it. The restaurant is all washed out gold and burnt reds, more cutlery than any of the customers will actually use already laid out on the tables, art prints picked at random and dotted around the room in too-expensive frames.

There is a family sitting across from you. They are brash and loud and you can’t take your eyes off them. You watch carefully, notice the mother’s delicate wrists, just a little too small; the skin at her temples taught and unnatural, fingers like dead branches snagging at the youngest child’s coat and pulling. The father is absent, mostly. He is thick with age, brown hair receding, and when he looks up for a breadth of a second you see no sign of life in his eyes. He is dull.

Your attention shifts to the children, utterly lacking in any sort of personality, a singular entity made up of four small bodies, screaming and frantic, unaware of anything beyond the material at their fingertips. You scratch at your hand absently, watching the family interact and you wonder, briefly, if you could ever have something so human. Steve is-- he is more than enough, he is soft and perfect and an inevitability, but in all their lives they’ve never once even talked about children. Scared, maybe, to see them die before they ever will.

A waiter nearby catches your attention and you finally turn away from the family to wave for the bill, all thoughts of them forgotten.

The air outside is clammy, thick between your fingertips. You can’t resist rubbing them together, soothing the itch that has spread now, curling around the veins in your wrists. There is an endless current of bodies that surround you, heading towards fixed destinations and you wince, teeth aching almost unbearably when a single body pulls out of the crowd just far enough that their weight presses against you uncomfortably. They apologize, too late, as your hand is shaking imperceptibly and the itch is heavy in your shoulders. This is when you start to panic.

-

Everything is quiet. You push through the crowd, against the current and into the street, distantly aware that there should be sound but it’s just beyond your grasp. Cars have stopped, narrowly avoiding hitting you, and drivers begin to open doors, mouths open but _soundless_. Someone grabs at you and you fall back, thinking of mothers with brittle bones, of shirts with stretched collars, of a life without ever having met Steve. But then the hand is there again, soft knuckles against your jaw, and you think _Thank God_ , because it’s him, small and thin this time but so so solid and if you hadn’t already been crying you would now. Steve’s mouth crooks up in little half smile and he points to his lips with the hand that isn’t cradling your head.

“It’s okay.” He mouths, and the relief is palpable. You can stop fighting this now, Steve is here and he probably won’t be long after you, and you can just… let go.

You curl against Steve as a shock rocks through you, sharp pain-- it’s pain now, no longer an itch but a burn that presses against your skin, rots through the gum around your teeth and burns through your organs. The last thing you feel is a dry press of lips against your temple before silently, you fall apart.

You are, for a moment, in possession of a desperate hunger. And then you are gone.

(They talk of that life often. Even though they hadn’t met each other till the very end, even though those deaths were among the most painful they’d experienced, it was nice to have known others that love death as they did. That is, to welcome it without fear, as the beginning it tended to be.)

 

**IX.**

He doesn’t pretend to understand their existence, has mostly avoided thinking of it, even on the cold nights that Steve’s soul (and body, whatever it may be) huddles against his own and asks,

“Do you ever wonder?” And he’ll answer,

“No,” like he always does, “I try not to think of it.” Because there was never a bearded man who told them their purpose, never once a lightning bolt that came zipping out of the sky, nothing to tell them how to _live_ like this. So they muddle along, flit through their lives without much of a clue about what exactly they’re here for, doing their best to live the only way they know how ( _By taking it one life at a time_ , Steve says.)

Sometimes Bucky resents their existence though, the loneliness of being one half of an entire species. He worries a little, that the love they have for each other isn’t their own. He thinks that maybe them falling together like they did, like they _do_ , over and over, is maybe not of their own free will at all. He doesn’t like the idea of fate, that they could be born into the world with the intention of being wrapped up in each other. He prefers the illusion of autonomy, even if maybe it is just a childish fantasy; the reality that their existence together -just the two of them- could be a predetermined event or an inevitability of their isolation together. The idea is uncomfortable, and a chill runs through him at the idea.

When he is feeling particularly bitter (like now, face smashed into a shag rug and cheap vodka puddled on the floor) he thinks about free will and loneliness and not understanding anything, and he curses every deity he’s ever heard of and then some, curses ancestors he’s pretty sure don’t exist-- he curses the whole goddamn universe.

Not more than a few months later he remembers that moment and wonders if that was what did it. But when he tells Steve the corner of his mouth turns down and he says,

“Don’t think of it.”

 

**3\. Can’t choose a thread to begin**

Bucky is sixteen and resolutely ignoring his mom’s attempts at reasoning with him while she drives him to school. It’s the fourth time they’ve moved in two years and unlike his older sister, who manages to gain a loyal posse wherever she goes, the people he’d call his friends don’t extend very far past her, his mom and their dog.

“C’mon, it’ll be a good way for you to make friends while learning something too.” She flicks her gaze to him for a second then looks back at the road.

“Please just give it a try, for me Buck.” And he’s absolutely powerless against his mom’s not-even-subtle manipulation, so he sighs as loud as he can make it and mumbles a yes in her direction, watching her mouth twitch up in a rare smile.

-

There’s about a dozen people in the room when he gets there, and most of them seem only to be TA’s learning so they can work with disabled kids. He grimaces, slumps down by a desk at the back of the room where he can maybe nap a little till the teacher turns up.

He’s just settling his head in his arms when someone sits down next to him, way closer than necessary. He sits up so he can glare at the person, when he actually _sees_ them, which-- _oh_. The boy is probably his age, even if he is about a head taller and three times heavier than Bucky, and he’s wearing a varsity jacket for the school the next town over. He’s blond and flushed and goddamn beautiful. He’s also looking at Bucky with wide eyes, like _he’s_ the crazy one, not someone who was minding their own business till some (admittedly hot) asshole decided to practically sit in their lap.

“You’re a bit close there pal,” he says, motioning to where their thighs are touching, and Bucky watches, fascinated, as the guy’s entire face flames red. He pushes his chair back with way too much force, causing the metal to grind loudly against the floor and most of the people in the room turn their heads, which only makes the guy go redder.

“Oh god, I’m s-so sorry.” He says, voice a little too loud for how close their sitting, “I didn’t mean to, it’s just. Just so good to-- _Bucky_ , hi. God.” Which makes absolutely no sense because Bucky is like ninety-five percent sure he’s never met this guy in his life.

“What?”

“It’s, ah-- _oh_.” The guy says, face falling a little, “You d-don’t know me, right. I’ve, um, heard about you from, from--” he trails off, fingers scratching at the tops of his thighs.

“Track, right? I came third at nationals two weeks ago.” Bucky offers, and the guy mumbles an affirmation, his nails making that grating zipping sound against the denim. Bucky tries to ignore it, settling back down against the desk. He lasts maybe thirty seconds before he sighs and looks up.

“Please stop,” he says. The guy’s fingers still, and his shoulders tense, but he stays quiet. The teacher comes in a few minutes later, introduces herself as Mary-Elizabeth and begins to show them the ASL alphabet, and then Bucky is too busy trying to make his brain remember the signs to bother worrying about the twitchy guy next to him.

That’s the first time they meet.

The next class is three days later, and the guy comes and sits next to him _again_ , even if he gives Bucky a little more room this time. He fidgets for a bit, picking at his jeans and tapping his foot and being generally annoying, till finally he huffs and blurts out, still too loud,

“Steve,” then pauses for a second, fingers fluttering over his thighs, “Uh- I mean, I’m Steve, my-- my name is Steve.” Red starts to creep up his neck again and Bucky is both exasperated and kind of amused at the guy’s inability to function.

“And you know my name,” he says, turning away for a second to check the time on his phone. When there’s no reply he looks back up at Steve expectantly, only to see that Steve is staring at him, looking vaguely irritated. Bucky is about to ask what the fuck he did when the teacher comes in and he decides to leave it.

Mary-Elizabeth teaches them the importance of lip-reading in conjunction with signing, and Bucky watches Steve instead of her for the entire lesson, trying to figure out why the lines of his shoulders are suddenly curled inward, the tips of his ears flushed pink. He’s still no closer to understanding what the fuck he did when the class finishes and Steve bolts out the room before Bucky can even say anything. Bucky is caught between bemused and vaguely annoyed.

Anyways. That’s the second time.

The next few times they meet are just as confusing, split between enjoyable conversation and weird stiltedness that always seems to creep up on them. One minute he’ll be talking about a new film he’s seen, Steve genuinely engaging with him, and the next he’ll be staring at Bucky with a constipated look on his face, or just outright ignoring him altogether. It’s irritating, mostly, that he can’t get a read on the guy.

By their sixth lesson Bucky is becoming increasingly frustrated with Steve, having been complaining for the past five minutes about his Mom’s totally unnecessary suggestion to _lay off the sweets Buck, I can see your belly through that shirt_ , only to look over and see Steve doodling in his notepad, obviously not listening at all.

“Okay, what the hell is your problem?” he huffs, shoving at Steve’s shoulder. Steve startles and drops his pencil on the table, ignoring it roll off the side and to the floor.

“Bucky?” he says, all wounded eyes and confused head tilting, which makes Bucky feel bad, which only irritates him _more_.

“You keep ignoring me!” he says, aiming for angry but getting something closer to a whine. He consciously doesn’t fold his arms or slide down in his seat, which he wants to do, just watches that familiar pink rise on Steve’s cheeks as his eyes widen in realization.

“Oh, no, it’s just-- I’m not ignoring you, it’s only,” he pauses, takes a breath like he’s steeling himself then says, “I’m deaf, a bit. Or, going deaf I guess, I have Meniere’s? I don’t know if you know what-- I can’t hear very well.”

Bucky immediately feels like the _biggest_ asshole. And a fucking idiot, they’re in a signing class, duh.

“I’m sorry man, I just thought you were gettin’ bored of me.” he murmurs.

“No! No, if you want to get my attention Bucky, just poke me or something. I can hear most of the time anyways, the ringing just gets a bit loud sometimes.” Steve says, his smile way too sad for Bucky’s liking. He’s gonna say something, but Mary-Elizabeth comes in, and so he focuses on her. And if he decides to pay a little more attention than usual to what she’s teaching, well then that’s his business.

-

“So who’s the girl?” his sister asks him from the doorway, smirking when he jumps hard enough to knock his knee against the underside of his desk.

“Ow-- what the fuck Rebecca, don’t sneak up on me like that!” he hisses, “And what the hell do you mean, a girl?”

“You were putting, like, the barest minimum of effort into that signing class mom is making you do, and then all of a sudden you’re spending hours _practicing_? You barely even do your homework Bucky, why else would you suddenly be so interested?” she says, coming in his room and flopping on his bed. She tilts her head towards him, her expression suddenly serious,

“Or is it a boy?” Which makes Bucky’s throat catch, his heart thud against his ribcage, but Rebecca just smiles at him, a little fond,

“Don’t panic, I won’t tell mom. I just gotta say though, the way you look at the guys on the shows you watch makes it kinda obvious.”

“So you don’t…mind?” he asks, voice wobbly. She watches as Bucky swipes a hand across his eyes, sniffling a little, then gets up off the bed and pulls him into a bear hug before he can escape.

“Of course I don’t mind, dumbass. It’s a part of who you are. I didn’t care when you went through that weird phase of only wearing yellow clothes, did I? And this is _nothing_ compared to that.” Bucky laughs a little wetly, shoving at her shoulder.

“You pinky swore you’d never bring that up again.” He says, and she grins, all teeth.

“Yeah but my toes were crossed, didn’t count. I’m gonna to be bringing that up for the rest of your life baby brother. When you bring boys over to meet, I’m gonna say ‘hey, James likes to pretend he’s punk, but it’s all a lie. One time he went three months only ever wearing yellow. Even his b--’” Bucky pushes her shoulders hard enough that she falls back on the bed, giggling.

“You won’t! Or I’ll tell mom about the weed you’ve got hidden in your wardrobe.” He says. Rebecca’s eyes narrow.

“Bucky.”

“ _Rebecca._ ”

“Okay, fine, ruin my fun. You still didn’t answer though, who’s the boy that’s got you actually working for once?” she asks. Bucky knows she won’t let this go if he doesn’t tell her, so he groans loudly, says,

“Ugh, you suck. His name is Steve, and he’s got, uh,” he clicks on a tab on his laptop and reads out the Wikipedia page, “Meniere’s disease, so he has ringing in his ears and he can’t hear and stuff. I thought I’d learn properly, so it’s easier to speak to him.” He looks up from the laptop screen to see Rebecca’s eyes crinkling, smile crooked.

“Don’t.” he whines, covering his face in his hands.

“But Buckyyyy,” she whines, drawing out his name, “That’s _so_ nice of you. You’re so sweet my teeth are rotting. Look.” She bares her teeth at him, laughs when he throws a cushion at her head.

“Right, why did I even tell you that.” He puts one hand on her face and the other on her stomach and pushes her off the bed, satisfied with the squawk she makes when she hits the floor.

“Go away Rebecca,” he says, but instead she just giggles some more.

\--

When Steve sits down next to him before their next lesson, Bucky takes a breath and taps him on the shoulder. When he has Steve’s attention he carefully signs

 **hi s-t-e-v-e nice meet you my name b-u-c-k-y.** Steve barks out a surprised laugh and Bucky worries he might’ve messed that up, so he signs

 **you think i sign bad?** (which he'd looked up pretty much straight away) but Steve only laughs harder, hand slapping against Bucky’s chest. He calms himself after a bit, mostly serious if not for the twitch of his lips.

“That’s real nice of you Buck, to do that for me. But uh- there’s a reason I’m in a signing class you goof. I have no idea what you just said to me.” Steve says. Bucky marvels at Steve’s ability to make him feel like a fucking idiot for actually trying for once.

“Oh.” He says dumbly, suddenly unsure of himself. He’d spent the past week throwing himself into learning as much ASL as he could that he didn’t really think about what came after that, let alone what to do if Steve didn’t know fucking sign language, _ugh_. He’s desperately regretting his enthusiasm, just about ready to hide under his desk in embarrassment when Steve leans over him and presses a chaste kiss to Bucky’s lips. Their noses bump and Steve is back in his seat faster than Bucky can blink, but _Steve had just kissed him._

“Oh.” He says. Steve’s cheeks are tinged a little pink and his eyes are wide like he’s surprised at himself and Bucky feels kind of how Steve looks. He also wants to do that again, but then other people start to filter in the classroom and so he doesn’t. Steve’s face starts to look a little uncertain though, so Bucky reaches across to where Steve’s fingers have started twitching against his thigh and squeezes them in a way he hopes is reassuring.

Steve must get the message because the grin he turns on Bucky is practically blinding, and right before Mary-Elizabeth comes in and shushes them all he says,

“You’re adorable,” and Bucky is too busy hiding his own blush to protest.

-

After that, making a fool of himself in front of Steve becomes sort of a pattern. Not that Bucky minds all that much since the majority of his embarrassment occurs in Steve’s bedroom while they explore each other’s bodies-- Bucky falls off the bed more than once in his eagerness, leaves too-dark bruises on Steve’s neck that linger for a week afterwards. It takes them a few tries before they even get to third base, because Bucky comes in his pants the second Steve’s hand goes near his belt.

Not that Steve even gives a shit, usually too busy wrapped up in Bucky to even notice the embarrassing stuff he does. Rebecca says that Steve’s obliviousness to Bucky’s idiocy makes them perfect for each other, and he has to agree.

From then on life is pretty good to them. They graduate from high school each with a certificate that says they are at least semi-functional at signing, end up going to the same college, much to his mom’s chagrin. She makes an attempt at persuading him otherwise, says something about ‘other friends’ and ‘co-dependency’ but he’s not really listening at that point, already set on going wherever Steve is.

By second year they end up renting a place together, with a guy called Clint who they’d met at the disability society (which Bucky only got into on Steve’s insistence that he was a translator) and his dog, a lab that only barely passed his assistance training. They never find out the dog’s actual name since Clint only ever signs **pizza dog** at him.

Not everything is perfect though. While the medication does help Steve with his vertigo (which Bucky only ever saw once when Steve forgot his tablets and ended up collapsed on the bathroom floor, puking his guts out for hours and totally unable to stand while Bucky panicked down the phone at the 911 operator) and Steve handles losing his hearing with relative calm all things considered, only spending a single shaky week hidden in his room before he signed to Bucky that he was ready to go back to school again, there are other things.

Even with meds and therapy, Steve’s anxiety is something he never manages to shake. Most people assume the source is his deafness, but Bucky knows better, even if he doesn’t totally understand it. Seemingly innocuous things set him off; a documentary on Buddhism has him on the verge of a panic attack, fingers scratching hard against his thighs; he avoids looking up at the stars as much as possible, claims not to like being reminded of space stretching infinite above them; and death, more than anything, absolutely terrifies him.

Bucky never really gets close to understanding why. Just helps him through the panic attacks, and when he finds him up at 3am, painting a blurred picture of him and Bucky submerged in something that isn’t quite water, faces solemn with something that isn’t quite fear, he just sits with him till he’s finished. When Steve’s done Bucky pries the paintbrush from his fingers, setting it on the table, then he takes the painting and puts it away in a cupboard that contains more than a hundred of the same image.

He clears away the table, then pulls Steve back to bed with him, curls around him and pretends not to hear the steady drip of tears against the pillow.

-

The day they get married dawns cold and wet, snow settled overnight, thick enough that most guests have to trek to the church in boots and parkas. A steady leak drips through the church ceiling during the entire ceremony, and everyone is freezing. But then Steve signs his vows while Bucky translates (which he'd insisted on, claiming not to want to subject everyone to his inevitable shouting), voice a little shaky,

 _“Bucky has heard this story many times by now, but I’m going to make him tell you all about it. I lost my hearing fully during our last year of college. Go to bed early one night, and the next morning, nothing. And you know what the last thing I heard was? Bucky, in the shower, singing RENT of all the fucking things.”_ Bucky’s voice cracks a little, and Steve grins at him while the guests laugh. _“When I first told Bucky that he freaked out. Kept apologizing for it over and over, till I told him what I’m gonna tell you all now. That that was the moment I knew I loved him. The last sound I hear is him butchering_[ _Take me or leave me_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mAfMZ_vWJDo) _, and to me, that was goddamn perfect. That’s how I knew.”_

He laughs as Steve says ‘I do’ way too loud, and then he signs it and they kiss each other with cold lips and Bucky finds he doesn’t regret a thing.

(Not even inviting Clint and his inevitable plus one, who eats most of the buffet pizza before anyone can get to it)

 

The car crash that does it isn’t so bad. The lorry comes out of nowhere and he barely has time to realize what’s happening before it’s over. The last thing he hears is Steve’s too-loud rendition of [Seasons of love](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UvyHuse6buY).

 

**VIII.**

He wakes up with his face still smashed into the carpet, hand sticky with spilled vodka and a headache just this side of bearable. For a second he wonders where Steve is and why he hadn’t helped Bucky out of his clothes or at least off of the floor before he remembers: an artists’ convention, week-long, which was why he was drunk and maudlin on a Tuesday night anyways. He resents himself a little, for how clingy he is right now. It reminds him vaguely of a sister he’d had in a previous life when she’d become pregnant, which--

He rests a hand against his stomach and panics, pictures children that’ll die before they do, or worse- be doomed to a fate like their own, that is, until rational thought intervenes. _Right,_ he thinks, laughing a little hysterically, _not possible in this body, not in this life at least_. He lets out a shaky breath, tells himself to stop being so goddamn ridiculous, and makes his way downstairs to pour some coffee (he and Steve had on multiple occasions discussed the possibility that caffeine addiction could cling to them through death and rebirth. They hadn’t yet disproved the idea).

-

He’s not long finished cleaning up the house (and himself) when Steve comes in the door, suitcase in one hand and half a dozen bags of new art supplies in the other. He’s sweating, shirt clinging to him nicely, and the second he sees Bucky his eyes light up and everything in his arms gets dumped on floor as Steve all but vaults over the couch to get at him.

“ _Damn_ ,” he says, as Steve’s hands go to his waist and he starts nosing at Bucky’s jaw, “You missed me big guy?” His voice is a little shakier than he’d like, though. Because this isn’t them, at all. They have never had issues being away from each other, never been so desperate for each other, not like this. When their time together is literally infinite it means that they can often go _years_ without seeing each other, safe in the knowledge that in the grand scheme of things that’s no time at all.

So a week should be nothing, and yet here they are, clinging to each other like it’s been a life time. Steve kisses him, licks into his mouth like he’s desperate, fingers bruising against Bucky’s sides, wetness against his cheeks and that's when Bucky realizes that something is very wrong.

 

**4\. Teeth to void**

Some are harder than others.

There is no memory of previous lives this time round, nothing but pain, endless and all-consuming. There is no Bucky. There is no Steve. There is only Candidate B41, and _pain._

He is born too early, his legs and one arm deformed beyond use, blind in one eye, jaw misaligned, heart and lungs barely functioning. The doctors shake their heads, tell his mother (while she scratches at the needle marks on her arms, her thighs) he’s not made for this world. They ask, ever so gently, if maybe the body could be used for scientific purposes.

“Sure,” she says, sucking on a tooth, “Do I get paid for that?”

She gets her money, gets her high, dies in an alley some weeks later while a few blocks over her baby boy lays frozen in a tank. He stays that way for four months. They want to make sure he is strong enough to undergo the surgery. When it’s time they warm him up slowly, take blood and feed him through a drip. He does not cry.

The first operation is the most delicate: a black metal heart that looks like liquid tar is inserted between his ribs where it twitches, thuds and--

“ _There_ , a heartbeat. The procedure was a success. _Well done_.”

The rest take years to complete. He has been gifted with a serum that allows his healing time to be half that of a human, but still, it takes time. His useless legs are cut away at the thigh, replaced with thick blades. A new arm is fitted to the deformed one that never grew past the elbow. They coat it in metal to stop the skin wearing away and slot the prosthesis over the top, where they solder it to his bones, his flesh. The organs, even those that worked, are slowly replaced, his lower jaw ripped out in favor of a new one that fits just right (“An overbite is ugly B41, you will thank me later,” says the doctor, and then later: “Hold still, we need to sever the tongue.”). A brand new eye is the last thing they give him, slot it in place while he’s strapped to the table, awake.

“Perfect.” The doctor whispers, sewing the eyelid closed to allow for healing. He grits his metal teeth and wills himself to pass out.

A month passes and the stitches are dissolved, the eye open. He stares at his reflection in the observation window. The eye is black, like his arm, his legs.

They are always black.

-

He is pushed into a room some time later, confronted with a crowd of men in suits. The doctor says,

“This is B41, just as we discussed. Come, look, he really is a marvel.” The men are eager, trip over themselves to poke at him, see how he works. He wills himself not to shake.

“Can it fight?” One man asks, dragging a nail down the side of his jaw. But the doctor shakes his head, says,

“Ah, no. He is only the prototype for prosthesis. There are others who we have been training for combat and intelligence, he is simply to test how much of a body can be replaced before it can no longer function.” Fingers pinch at the flesh of his stomach.

“A great deal of his torso is still human, is this not counterproductive? Surely it is better not to have flesh that is easily damaged surrounding his organs?” Says a voice. The doctor’s answer is gleeful,

“No not at all, retaining muscle around the torso ensures fluidity of movement. His organs however, are almost entirely machine. His ribs were replaced even, they have hinges to allow for easier access. Someone shoots at _this,_ ” the doctor taps his chest, “Then he may bleed, yes, but no bullet can pierce his organs. He is all but invincible.” There are murmurs of excitement, fingertips pressed all over, and a whimper slowly makes its way out of his throat.

The men still. The doctors eyes narrow and he says,

“Do not be disturbed, it is merely a side effect of his time with us, he is fearful. This is something we have all but eliminated in candidates T15 and P97, with whom we have been testing the interaction between memory loss and decreased fear response. It is promising. Would you like to-”

The doctor does not finish his sentence. There is the flash of a red light against the doctor’s head a split second before the observation window explodes inwards and the doctor falls to the floor. There is a spreading puddle of blood that stains the shoes of the men in the room, which they do not protect, only stare in fear (an emotion he only recognizes from the glimpses of himself he’s seen while on the operating table) as men swarm the room like ants after crumbs, pushing them to their knees and cuffing them.

B41 does not understand. This has not happened before. He feels-- he is-- _relieved_ , that the doctor is a corpse at his feet (Something in the back of his mind whispers _nothing stays dead forever_ , but the thought is gone within seconds). He can’t help the croak he makes as he falls to the floor, shaking with the knowledge that even if he is put in prison now, or captured and studied some more, that man will never touch him again.

He stays that way, curled forwards into a ball, till he feels eyes on him and looks up (and up) at the man that is crouched in front of him. His jawline is defined, blue eyes clear, palms big and calloused where he holds them out between them, and abruptly, for what is maybe the first time in his life, B41 is embarrassed. He offers his hands and says,

“I’m going to touch you now, is that okay?” and B41 wants to curl up in a ball and _hide_ from this man with a defined jaw; with two working eyes and a heart that beats like a metronome. B41 has never been ashamed of his body before, so focused on avoiding pain that he never cared, but now he is confronted with how absolute his differences are, how far from human he is.

He nods though, despite his brain telling him that he’ll taint the man if he lets him (he is dirty and broken and this man is his polar opposite), because he craves a touch that doesn’t grab at him like he is an object, that isn’t the foreshadowing to pain. So he nods, and the man smiles with his _white_ teeth and rests a careful hand on B41’s right shoulder, doesn’t hesitate or flinch when it whirs under his touch, black plates rising just enough to press against his palm.

“You’re safe. No one is going to hurt you again, okay? I’m going to help you stand up now, and we are going to get you some clothes to put on and a warm drink. You must be cold, huh?” He says, carrying on talking even as he helps B41 to his feet and starts to walk him from the room. His voice is soft and careful like he’s talking to a child, which he’d resent if it wasn’t for how nice it was to be spoken to without condescension for once. As they leave the room he sees that most of the suits are gone, only the men in black remaining, watching him, with a look in their eyes that he is intimately aware of. He has, after all, been the subject of pity since the day he’d been born.

-

Later, after the doctors have tested him for injuries (and balked over his body), he is released into the custody of the man. He introduces himself as Steven, says that he’s on a team of people who’ve been working to shut down Lernaean Inc for years. They knew some of what was happening but had no proof, that is, until one of the scientists managed to avoid being killed after his retirement, then told the police _everything_. Now B41 is going to live with Steven, which is unorthodox, but he is not violent like the others, doesn’t require immediate medical attention, and where would he go otherwise? _Not_ to a facility, Steven says.

B41 is only half listening to this, staring out the window at the blur of the world that passes by them, too fast for him to see. He is _happy_ , maybe, to see this world that he’d been hidden away from for so long, even if it is overwhelming. He spots a field of cows and must make a sound because Steven startles, fingers drumming on the steering wheel.

“How,” he begins, fingers twitch, runs a hand through his hair, “How long where you in that place for?" As far as the doctor was aware, B41 could not speak. He was not aware that when B41 was put in his cell (not frozen, that was only for priority candidates), with a mattress, a toilet, and a tiny TV, he used his time well. He’d spend the days left in there watching hour after hour of people speaking and begun to train himself to do the same, curving words around his metal tongue, ignoring the click of it against his teeth.

So he swallows, takes a breath, forms the words.

“Since birth,” he says, and watches Steven’s face drain of color, fingers _twitch_ against the steering wheel.

“Fuck.” He says. B41 does not know this word.

-

Steven’s apartment is up five sets of stairs, which they realize very quickly aren’t easily navigated when you lack knees. When they finally make it up, B41 having been carried, mostly, Steven shows him his room, gestures at towels and sheets and also the bathroom and says something he doesn’t hear. Then they go to the kitchen and Steven says _food_ so B41 sits at the offered chair, opens his mouth for the feeding tube and waits--

And waits while Steven’s entire _body_ twitches, and his hand reaches towards B41 before he reigns himself in, lets out a breath that sounds like it hurts.

“Okay, I’m not-- that’s not how we do things now, okay? Here,” he holds out a banana, waits for him to take it before he gets his own, sitting and eating it without ever taking his eyes off B41. The thing is though, it isn’t like he doesn’t understand how most people eat; he’s watched whole programs about cooking on his little TV. He remembers laying on the operating table and watching a technician eat berries from a little bag, remembers sharp nails digging into the flesh at his temple and the doctor’s voice.

“No B41, you do not need that food, you have the tube. That food is for _humans_ ,” he’d said. He looks at the banana in his hands. If he’d known the phrase, B41 would’ve said ‘ _Fuck. Him._ ’ As it is, he just bares his black teeth eats the thing.

After, things start to get better. He learns what positive touch is and-- and

He begins to

Things start to-- to--

But no, this life is not one with a happy ending. He throws up the banana minutes later, discovers that years of feeding tubes mean he is unable to consume solid food. He barely sleeps, scared of vivid dreams where Steven drags him back to the facility and into the doctors arms, says,

“It’s okay B41, I’m only doing what’s best for you.”

He is not let outside, not the way he looks. In case he scares the public, he is told. He stares at himself in the mirror for hours on end, thinks _disgusting_. Broken glass bites into the knuckles of his flesh hand on more than a few occasions. _This,_ he thinks, staring at the blood trickling down his arm, _is the closest he’ll ever get to human._

Steven finds him after work one day, deep gouges wherever the metal fuses to his body, like he'd been trying to rip it from his flesh. A shoelace is strung around his neck and tied to a curtain rail.

He is cremated, his ashes given to Steven, who takes them home and puts them on his kitchen counter, hands shaking. Later, after half a bottle of vodka and an argument with his landlord about late rent, he grabs the box and throws it out of his window. He does not remember come morning.

Steven, in turn, is fired from his job not more than three years later for having driven to a crime scene half a dozen units over the limit, rum still sticky on his fingers. Six months after that his body is found, washed up on a river bank.

**  
VII.**

It happens like this: he wakes up on a day that could have been wholly unremarkable, curled around Steve with his head on his chest and the gentle thud of Steve’s heartbeat against his ear. The house is mostly silent, only broken by the soft snores from their dog Marlow at the foot of the bed and the quiet ticking of the long-case clock Bucky had inherited from his father (a clockmaker this time round. He’d given it to them as a wedding present, their names engraved in the pendulum). The day could have been wholly unremarkable, were it not for the heavy burden of knowledge that settles within him upon waking--that this life is his last. He shakes awake with tears already streaked down his cheeks, consumed with fear.

Steve wakes up when Bucky grips at his forearms, nails digging grooves into his skin, but it only takes a second of bleary eyed confusion before he focuses on Bucky and curls one arm around his back.

“Buck?” he asks, voice sharp with worry. But Bucky doesn’t hear him, just sobs wetly against Steve’s neck and tightens his fingers around Steve’s wrist till he’s sure he’s drawing blood. They stay like that till light begins to filter in through the curtains; Bucky shaking apart in Steve’s arms, frightened like a child, and Steve confused but mumbling soothing nonsense into his hair, waiting it out.

He can’t explain it properly when Steve asks, that the knowledge comes to him not through a bush on fire or a demonic voice from the radio, but a stray thought that shadows him through his dreams that night. He remembers a death, near the beginning, when he’d been something small and young and without memory. It was the only time he could remember ever being afraid of death, he’s sure there were others that he can't recall, but at the time he’d been incoherent with fear, and he thinks-- wouldn’t it be awful, to face death with the knowledge that you would not come back, and have to face your life as you had lived it and think, okay. _That’s me, those are the choices I made_ , and somehow find it in yourself to be okay with that.

The idea is gone within seconds, and he slides into another dream, of poppy fields and gasoline-soaked carpets. But other thoughts follow him through the slipstream, clinging to the dreams that flit by faster and faster, a snake that Steve had once been becomes a rope around his neck, the air from one universe becomes another’s and he chokes on the poison, the atoms that form him vibrate and pulse with electricity flowing beneath his skin. The images flow and evolve until finally they amass together in a single idea:

_He is going to die. Permanently._

 

**5\. Filthy rags impure with sin**

“…not _The_ Devil. _A_ devil, one of many. There ain’t no big bad in charge of all the others. It’s just half a million dickheads who got lost on their way to the afterlife. So selling your soul definitely ain’t all that. Guy I sold mine to was called Bradley or somethin’, goes by ‘The Stabber’ now, he’s not so bad. I just gotta do some secretary work, walk the hell-dog, and help out with a few stabbings. Oh-- what do you mean you’re not so sure about the stabbing? You are selling your soul to a _devil_. It’s not all a fuckin’ walk in the park…okay so I do walk the hell-dogs in the park, but you get my point.

Bra- I mean, _The Stabber’_ s primary interest is stabbing, right? So that’s my job. If you sold your soul to, say, Harriet, your business would be strangulation, if you settled on Charlie it’d be stoning. Which I wouldn’t recommend actually, unless you got some killer stamina, stoning really does take it out of you.

…Well, that’s great, thanks for calling the devils 4 u hotline. You got any more questions? Nah? Cool, I’ll just put you through to the sales team then. Alright. Bye.” The phone rings.

“Devils for you, this is Jacob, how can I help?” A shrill voice begins to lecture to him about the merits of repenting and giving his soul back to the good side (does the good side have Stephanos, though. The answer is no, no they do not. And really, what’s the point if Stephanos ain’t there?). He slams the phone down and winces when he hears a crack. That’s the third one this week. He really needs to get laid.

“Steph!” he calls down the hall, loud enough that his voice carries over the screaming, “You got a minute?”

(Bradley gets tired of him at some point, stabs him in the neck -no surprise there- and Jacob watches Steph’s face twist in righteous fury (or as righteous as someone who uses [Galatians 5:19](https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Galatians%205:19-21) like it’s a fuckin’ to-do list can be) and throw himself bodily at Bradley. He gets a knife to the gut for his troubles, chokes up blood when he laughs against Jacob’s side.

“That was fuckin’ stupid.” He slurs, and Jacob nods emphatically. Or, he would, if his spinal column were still attached. Steph’s head is heavy where it rests against his shoulder. (Bradley mumbles something about co-dependency. If he weren’t dead, Jacob would probably ignore him.)

  
**6\. Skin sewn on sheets**

The first time Bucky is forced to live without Steve doesn’t go so well. They are young, barely been through a hundred lives between them, and the thing is, most of the time? Their deaths are pretty close together. Usually within a year of each other, though sometimes it takes a little longer. So when Steve dies of a brain aneurism, is there and _gone_ within the space of maybe five minutes, Bucky acknowledges it and moves on. They are used to losing each other by now, are melancholy after the death of the other but safe in the knowledge that they’ll meet again within time, they tend not to mourn. Instead, they wait.

So James Barnes, nineteen and bitter, but not quite angry, with regret for only having had a year with Steve, joins the marines. It’s the logical thing to do. They agreed some time ago that they would never shorten their lives when the other died first, but this is something to keep his mind occupied, and if he does get killed in action it’s no skin off his back. So he ships out, and he fights, and he waits.

A year passes, and he starts to get twitchy. People comment on his bravery as much as they do his death wish. He loses his arm disarming a bomb in a residential area, ignoring his lieutenant shouting at him down the radio. Miguel Figueroa’s angry spitting is cut off when he hits something he shouldn’t have and the bomb blows, taking most of his left side with it.

Later, he’s in a hospital bed, staring at the empty space where his arm should be when Figueroa slips in the room.

“You dumbass motherfucker,” he begins, dropping into the chair to the side of the bed, “You aiming to get yourself killed, Barnes?” James lowers his eyes and stays silent. Only then Figueroa sucks in a sharp breath and he realizes, too late, that Figueroa was joking.

“You _fuck._ You know you’re not coming back right? Even with the new space age fuckin’ prosthetics there is no way I can let you back out there if you’re just trying to get yourself killed.” James shrugs. It wasn’t like he was _trying_ , he didn’t plan to lose his fucking arm and half the skin on the left side of his body. He just--

“Fuck you Barnes. What happened to you is god-awful and I’ll do whatever I can to help you out man, but I’ve seen that look before. People who look like you do right now? They don’t make it out.” He goes silent then, hand coming up to rest on James’ chest in a way that is uncharacteristically gentle. When he raises his head he sees something like betrayal written across Figueroa’s face.

“What the fuck happened to you that made you this way James.” He says it like a statement, like he knows (but how could he _know_ , no one could ever understand what this feels like apart from Steve) and James can’t help but catch his eyes then, knows his gaze is hard and cold and nothing like the man Miguel knows-- he’d pretended for a while, but the more time passed without Steve the more exhausting it became to be someone else. It’s been fifteen months since Steve died, and he’s given up pretending for the comfort of others.

He knows he has started to unnerve people, has heard nurses outside talking about him; say _It isn’t like shock, it’s something else entirely. Like he doesn’t care_ and _God. Those eyes_. Figueroa must see some of that now, because he doesn’t hold his gaze for long, pulls his hand back from James’ chest like he’s been burnt.

“Maybe you should leave.” James says. He expects that he’ll have to argue with him, but Figueroa stands abruptly, stance somewhere between ready for a fight and terrified.

“I’d tell you to take care of yourself if I thought you’d listen,” he says, opens his mouth again and falters. Then he leaves the room and doesn’t look back.

-

He recovers, in time.  The doctors let him go home with the promise of weekly physiotherapy that he never takes up. He’s been without Steve for twenty-eight months and thirteen days when he understands fully that he isn’t going to be seeing him any time soon. His next immediate thought is of the knife in his cutlery draw, the razor under the bathroom sink, but it lasts only seconds before he remembers their promise to each other. He knows Steve wouldn’t want him to cut off his life early, but that doesn’t make it any easier.

He tells himself lies. _We’ve been together a long time, maybe a break is good_ , and _human lives are short, it’ll be over in a blink of an eye_ , though he knows full well that in a human body he’ll feel every second of it. He works in a local library to make ends meet, takes a second job at a bar just for something to do.

Some older veterans come in one night and apparently recognize one of their own, because they nod at him and they drink (and they drink. None of them claim to be dealing with their problems healthily), and they talk to Bucky about the death they saw and show him their ruined bodies.

At first he’s confused, unsure why they are so open about their experiences with him, till he begins to understand that this is as much for him as it is for them; they are giving him an opening to talk about himself. So he does. It’s a quiet night anyway, so he tells them while he cleans glasses.

“Not much of a story, really. Lost the arm in an explosion, honorably discharged.”

“There’s something else though.” one of the guys says, scratching absently at burn scars on his neck.

“A friend of mine died. I’d known him a real long time, but not-- not long enough. He was the reason I signed up.” James says, notes how most of them nod and look down at their drinks solemnly, but the guy with the burns tilts his head a little, scrutinizes his face.

“Why you still around then?” He asks, his eyes serious and unblinking. James’ breath catches in his throat and for a moment, he can't answer. This guy is way too perceptive for his own good. He thinks that maybe it’s because he’s is coming from a similar place to James (but still so different. Bucky wishes for a beginning in death, what this man wants is the opposite). So he’s honest with him, as much as he can be.

“I made a promise to him a long time ago that I wouldn’t when he left. Guess this is me keeping my promise,” he gestures at himself and the bar around him and smiles a little sadly. “It ain’t much, but it’ll do.” The guy nods like he gets it, and Bucky is starting to think that maybe he does.

It’s almost closing when they finally leave, consciously not touching James, but thanking him for the drinks and telling him they’ll be back soon. The man with the burns nods at him before he goes, tells him,

“You’re doing good. I’m sure he’d be proud of you.” And against all odds, it helps.

After that they come by most nights and James finds himself accidentally gaining some friends. He spends the next two decades distracting himself by volunteering with them at rehabilitation clinics and homeless shelters, free time mostly spent at the bar with a gradually expanding group of veterans. Somewhere along the way it sort of becomes a thing, a fortnightly meeting where thirty soldiers with varying degrees of issues come to drink beer and complain. When death finally takes him, the method doesn’t matter so much as the relief he feels; like taking a breath of fresh air after holding it for a too long-- a life time.

  
**7\. Pick me up with golden hand**

They do believe in karma, sort of. For every godawful wretch of a life they get a dozen easy, mundane, _soft_ lives as a kind of retribution. He’s not entirely sure they’d have stayed as sane (relatively speaking) as they have so far if that wasn’t the case.

The both agree then that the life that immediately follows is an apology of sorts from the universe. They end up as bear cubs, retaining only enough memory to know, when they first stumble across each other out by Chinitna Bay while their mothers are catching salmon, that they are _really_ happy about it. They must weigh less than sixty kilograms between them when they first meet, chasing and tumbling after each other through the shallow water, snatching fish from older bears that are easily half a ton heavier than they are. They curl around each other once they are too tired to play, staying that way till dusk falls and their mothers urge them to move on, then they bump noses and go their separate ways.

Years and years later, when Bucky is old and his fur greying, he gets his paw caught in a trap. Steve just happens to be passing, fate decides, so when a hunter comes after him with an old rifle and a sharp grin, Steve lunges and the guy doesn’t really have a chance.

Ultimately they don’t last much longer after that though, even if they do stick together. Bucky’s only got three working paws and Steve had been a runt, never grew as big as he should’ve, so when another hunter crosses their path a year or so later, the inevitable happens. It’s not bad though, quick and relatively painless, and it isn’t what they remember of this life. Instead they remember wet noses and salmon chasing, summer evenings spent dozing on the river bank. It’s a welcome relief.

 

**VI.**

He knows that they are picking up tics and habits that are starting to stay with them between lives— Steve’s recklessness with his own body is something he’s always been predisposed to, reasoning that death is only temporary for them, so why not do what they can to help in the meantime?

(after the sixth time he dies helping some variation of a cat out of a tree Steve finally concedes to Bucky that maybe he should save it for the bigger things.)

But then sometime after the life when Bucky had hung himself with shoelaces and Steve had followed him three years later into the Harlem river already halfway to alcohol poisoning, Steve goes right back to it, and then some.

It’s remnant of Buck’s death-wish the first time he’d had to live without Steve, except he _never stops._ Its not just Steve though— one too many deaths by explosion and Bucky has developed a consistent fear of loud noises, he favors his right arm even during the times he doesn’t lose the left, and his bitterness isn’t the most attractive personality trait, he's aware.

Bucky is also self-aware enough to notice how often they end up with mental health problems now, especially if they retain their memories; the burden of knowledge really too heavy to be born with. Even when everything goes well, one or both of them will invariably end up depressed or something similar. So it’s not _new_ , the anxiety and the despair that has begun to plague him after that night he’d woken up with the knowledge of his death. But the consistency of his fear is starting to become a problem; he spends too long after the dream barely leaving his room, jumping at every noise that could mean his death, pacing back and forth in agitation when his inability to leave the house becomes unbearable.

It takes maybe a month of quiet terror before he is finally able to tell Steve, though not from lack of trying. Steve knows him well enough that when Bucky tells him not to ask he doesn’t, though he can see how tense he is as the weeks go on and Bucky still won’t leave the house. Finally, he wakes up one morning after downing half a bottle of jack the night before and is confronted with Steve, eyes watery, hands shaking, and even though he can’t remember he knows that he must have told him.

Bucky’s head hurts and he feels like he’ll puke, but he pushes it to the side for a moment, manages to sit up and pull him into his arms. Steve lets out a desperate sob against his chest and Bucky hushes him, strokes his fingers through Steve’s hair and realizes, maybe for the first time, that this isn’t just going to affect him. If he goes, if he dies and leaves Steve then Steve will be alone for an infinite amount of time, or even if he obtains a permanent death at some point he’ll still have to live a dozen, a hundred, a thousand possible lives on his own before that happens. Bucky shivers at the thought and holds Steve closer.

After a while Steve manages to pull himself together enough that he can sit back, rubbing at his eyes, then kiss the corner of Bucky’s mouth with the barest brush of his lips.

“We’ll fix this.” Steve says, big hands cradling Bucky’s face, “I can fix this.”

 

**8\. Through a silver storm**

He’s lived more than a thousand lives by the time he first experiences not feeling right in the skin he’s born in. He’s the son of a king, dubbed ‘the doll prince’ by media obsessed with his soft face and clear blue eyes, so different from the rest of his family-- all dark hair and harsh features, blue blood almost visible beneath their skin.

When he goes missing at the age of fourteen the public is notably distraught. His face is plastered across the news, an unwelcome reminder of what had likely happened to a boy that looked as he did. There are speculations of revenge or ransom, but no demands are ever made, so thoughts flit back to his pretty face, and no one says a thing.

It never crosses their minds that maybe the prince just-- ran away. Why would it? He had the perfect childhood, days filled with people fawning over his pretty features, how soft spoken he was, how _lovely_. Dignitaries politely suggesting he meet their daughters, discussion over his head of how many _hearts_ he’d break. At fourteen his sisters loath him for the love that he takes from them (the love that he never wanted).

-

The first time his father hit him it had been when he’d found James smearing his mother’s blush on his cheekbones, draped in a soft cotton dress he’d taken from one of his sisters wardrobes. His father had clenched his fists, jaw twitching, and said,

“Get that off. _Now_ James, then come down to dinner.” And James had said _No, why can’t I wear this?_

And: _Don’t call me James._

The first time his father hit him his hand was closed in a fist. The first time his father hit him he knocked James’ last baby tooth free like an omen and, knuckles smeared bloody, he’d hissed,

 _“You are not a child anymore._ ” His father was wrong about many things, but not that.

The first time his father hit him was also the last. James was gone before sundown.

-

Anatoliy finds them half-starved in the woods four miles out of town. The first thing he asks for is a name, so--

 _Janna_ , she tells him, shaking. But anticipated laughter does not come, and neither does recognition. Anatoliy introduces himself, wraps a blanket around Janna’s shoulders and asks for another thing.

“Promise me,” he says, pulling a bag of berries from his pocket and pouring some into her hand, careful not to spill any. “Promise you’ll say yes, when the time comes.” She doesn’t understand what he means till much, much later. But in the meantime she nods, thanks him for the berries and watches him as his red hair disappears into the undergrowth.

She pours the berries into her mouth and falls asleep with a name on her tongue.

-

Janna feels thick with sleep when she wakes. Her eyelids are heavy and her chest heaves with each labored breath. There is a crunch of leaves underfoot and she raises her head, groggy, to see a boy not much older than she is, staring at her with wide eyes as blue as her own.

“Hi,” she croaks, her throat dry with-- what-- _oh._ The berries.

“Hello,” the boy says, interrupting her thoughts, “I’m Stefan.”

“Janna,” she says, testing it on her tongue. It’s not any easier to say the second time round.

“You’re the prince right? Boy like you shouldn’t be in the woods on your own.” Stefan says.

Suddenly brave, she says, “I’m a girl,” and Stefan tilts his head in confusion while he scrutinizes her face. She keeps her eyes fixed on his, waiting, and finally he shrugs.

“Okay. You wanna help me catch some squirrels?”

-

Her breathing is picking up, heart thudding against her chest hard enough that it feels like it’s bruising. She chances a glance behind her, sees some movement a few yards back and pushes herself to go faster, turning just in time to catch sight of a low hanging branch and ducks. Only she’s not quick enough for that to actually work and ends up sprawled on her back in the mud. Someone flicks her between the eyes.

“Stupid. You should watch where you’re going.”

“Fuck you.” She grunts, aiming for irritated but evidently not quite making it, since Stefan just drops to the floor and settles with his knees bracketing her hips, hands coming up to cradle her face.

“If you’d like to.” He says, grinning like the devil he is. She knees him in the stomach. He groans and rolls off her onto his back, allowing her to swap their positions and straddle him.

“Stupid,” Janna says, “You should watch your soft spots.”

“ _Ngh_ , did you have to do it quite so hard?” Stefan retorts, hands coming up to grip her waist even as he’s grimacing in pain.

“Absolutely, you should know better than to leave yourself vulnerable to an attack as simple as that, Stefan. I’m only trying to help you learn.” Stefan stares at her for a second, before cracking a wry grin.

“I must thank you, then, princess, for helping me so kindly,” he says, smirking as she attempts to roll her eyes while her cheeks flush pink at the pet-name (he _knows_ what it does to her, the bastard). She slumps forward till her arms fall on either side of Stefan’s head and kisses him, soft and easy. They stay that way for a while, till the sun begins to shine through the trees overhead and Stefan pushes himself to sitting.

“As much as I’d like to stay here kissing you, mama actually sent me to fetch you so we can go sell some stuff at the market. We shouldn’t leave it too late.” he says, and she notices for the first time the bag of food he’d left by the tree behind them. She presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth then stands, pulling him up with her.

She is twenty and her family is just Stefan and his mama and the goats out back, but they love her as she is, not as what they _want_ her to be. She takes their love and curls it around her like an armor on the days her skin feels too tight (too rough, bristles on her chin and calluses on her fingers that Stefan helps her smooth away with blades for the former and home-made creams on the latter), she remembers that Stefan doesn't care if she's not as much of a girl as she wishes she could be, if she smears Sarah's lipstick on her lips even on the days she has more facial hair than Stefan does. And that helps _her_ not care.

 -

It should be dangerous going into town, but her hair has grown into curls that fall to her shoulders, and her cheeks and chin have become rounded with good food, softening her features even more so. It means she'd not have to worry about people thinking she's even a boy, let alone the lost prince-- after all, who would expect to see the kings son six years after his kidnapping, only a town over and dressed like a peasant's daughter? Her father, maybe, after the last interaction between them, but even in the unlikely event that he leave the palace, ("Mud," he'd often say, "Does not go well with my boots.") Janna doubts he'd even want to have her back, not as she is now. She feels a vindictive sort of pleasure in that.

So. A good mix of willful ignorance and little interaction with the townspeople outside of customers lends itself to keeping her hidden. The closest she’s ever come to being found out was when a stable boy had slid a hand up her skirt in one of the local bars one night, fingers dangerously high up her thigh. Janna’s resulting panic had lead to a full blown bar brawl that Stefan had pulled her from, limping with a cracked rib and a split lip that kept re-opening every time she grinned at Stefan, but the stable boy was knocked out on the floor without finding out her secret so she counted that as a win.

-

The day is relatively uneventful; they sell a good amount of stock, and the weather is good, so they can wander the streets afterwards, buy some berries from another stall to eat on their walk home. Then a poster tacked to the wall catches her eye. It’s advertising for local men to sign up to become a guard at the palace, claims that the places are limited, but the benefits bountiful, which she doesn’t doubt. Her old family haven’t ever been entirely in the public’s favor and it’s an obvious that this is an attempt to change that. She turns to Stefan, meaning to laugh at it with him, but what she sees makes her pause. Because Stefan has a look on his face that he only gets when he’s made his mind up about something, specifically something foolish that he knows Janna will try to stop him doing.

“Don’t even think it,” Janna says, poking his chest, “Don’t you even fucking think it, Stef, I swear to god.” Except then he turns guilty eyes on hers, jaw twitching, and she knows that he’s already made his mind up. _Fuck._

Stefan gets the job, because of course he does, he’s likeable and he’s strong as an ox, they’d have been stupid to turn him down. He works for them for a few months without issue until one day he comes home with an invitation crumpled in his hands and a pleading expression on his face.

“It’s a masquerade ball, no one will know it’s you,” he says, fingers tilting Janna’s chin up to catch her eyes, “I wouldn’t ask if I had another option, princess. They told me to bring my wife along.” And she’d argue with him, shove him, point out how foolish it is, except then she notices his wording. She sighs.

“Wife, huh? I feel like that’s the sort of thing you share, Stefan.” Janna says it just to watch a slow blush crawl its way up his neck, his eyelashes flutter.

“It wasn’t--” he starts, falters, “I know we can’t, I mean it’s just easier to--” she interrupts him with a kiss, just at the crease of his mouth where it tilts up into a smile, then another on his lips.

“Don’t panic, I was just messing with you. I know you’d marry me if you could.” She runs her fingers up the soft edge of his jaw, through his hair. “But I can’t do it Stefan, I can’t go back there. I’m sorry.” She says, curls in against his chest to avoid seeing his disappointment.

She lays awake for a long time that night, mind filled with memories of the palace ballroom, of women in beautiful dresses that flutter round them that she’d wanted so desperately to have for herself. When she dreams, it’s of silken fabrics stained with red berries, and of Anatoliy, so long ago now, saying _promise you’ll say yes_.

When she wakes Stefan is watching her carefully like he does when she has nightmares, but Janna _understands._

“I guess,” she says, stifling a yawn against his chest, “I guess you’re going to have to find me a dress then.” And Stefan’s smile is blinding.

Sarah is not so enthusiastic as Stefan (who immediately sets about spending far too much money finding clothes for them both to wear, new makeup for Janna to use), bemused and a little worried for them both, but ultimately she agrees that they can go after a quiet discussion with Stefan that she can’t help but overhear. Sarah does not fall for his pleading eyes like Janna does, but she does love her like her own child, and when he tells her how much it’d mean to Janna, she folds with a sigh and a wry grin.

“You’re a good boy Stefan. Just-- life has made Janna hard, and maybe it’s time she be soft for once. Maybe you can protect her while she does that?” Sarah says. Stefan hugs her gratefully, says _thank you mama,_ and _yes, I will, I promise._

-

The month passes quickly, filled with long days at work to pay for the clothes, late nights practicing the dances required of them (not that they need to, they’ve danced since they were kids, and they’re good. Stefan just thinks they should be the _best_ ). The ball is a fortnight away when Stefan comes home late from work one night, cheeks flushed with excitement, paper-wrapped packages clutched in his hands. Janna narrows her eyes.

“What did you do?” she asks, but Stefan just shakes his head, hands her the largest parcel to unwrap. She peels it open with shaky hands, finds inside a gown; basque and skirt made of beautiful golden silk, then underneath that a dark leaf green cloak with delicate gold leaves embroidered across it. Then Stefan hands her a mask, a green so dark it’s almost black, with gold ribbon to tie.

She stares, for a while. Until Stefan starts to look worried like maybe he’d picked out something she didn’t like, except that’s _wrong_. She sets the dress down carefully on the dining table, moves around so she can take Stefan’s hands in her own, grip tight, and say,

“I love you, you know that? I love you so goddamn much.” She repeats it until she begins to weep, until Stefan does too, a little, and they stay like that for a while. Then Stefan shifts a little on his feet, spots of color high on his cheeks when he gestures at the smaller parcel on the table.

“There’s more if you wanted to open that,” he says, so she does-- abruptly understanding the flush on Stefan’s cheeks. Her fingers find a soft brassiere made of cream silk, then matching briefs, stockings, even a corset to help with the illusion of a waist. It’s all beautiful, and probably cost far more than they can afford, but she pushes that out of her mind for the moment in favor of gathering it all to her chest and turning back to Stefan.

“I think maybe I should try it on to see if it all fits. Would you like to help?” She says, not waiting for an answer before moving past him to their bedroom. She knows he’ll follow.

He comes up behind her once she’s naked, takes the brassiere from her hands and helps her into it, fastening it and spreading his hands over the expanse of her back, fingers careful-- he’s always so careful with her. She tilts her head to smile at him over her shoulder, notices that he’s hard, but ignores it for now. Stefan is quiet while he dresses her. The only sounds are his breathing, slowly picking up, and the soft rustle of fabric as he helps her into the corset, pulling the laces as tight as he can without hurting her.

He drops to his knees then, smiles as her own cock twitches with interest. His breath is warm against her skin when he leans forward to pull on the briefs, then the stockings, smoothing them up her calves and thighs till they are in place.

“Step back a little,” he says, eyes clear and bright as he watches her, “Let me look at you.” So she does, smiles down at him with her hips cocked, and when he reaches a hand out to stroke her thigh through the soft nylon quickly steps out of his reach.

“They fit nicely, Stef. But I think I should take them off, wouldn’t want to ruin the pretty fabric.” Janna says. Stefan flops backward with a groan.

-

The air is cool and sharp against their skin on the night of the ball. Janna tugs the soft velvet of her cape closer to her chest, presses a finger to her reddened lips and adjusts the mask one last time.

“Ready,” she tells Stefan, gripping the fabric of his coat a little desperately between her fingers when he offers her his arm. He nods, and they follow the other guests into the room.

They mingle and chat with the men that Steve works with and their wives, avoiding the royalty for the most part just as a precaution. Not that it matters, since Janna knows how she looks right now, knows there is no way in hell anyone could ever think of her as anything else other than what she is. And she can see, when the music picks up and they begin to dance, that people are looking, knows that they are beautiful together and they are drawing glances and she should feel worried but she’s _not_.

She’s vindictively happy in fact, especially when she catches a glimpse of the king half way through the night, looking so much older than when she saw him last, and his brow furrows ever so slightly but he doesn’t recognize her. Stefan spins her then, dips her low and she throws back her head and laughs and laughs and she thinks that she’s so _so_ glad she said yes.

She remembers when she’d been cold and lost and Stefan had asked her if she’d wanted to hunt squirrels-- and she realizes, abruptly, that maybe the yes Anatoliy had been talking about was _that_ one.

-

In the distant future when her bones creak and her hair has faded white, she falls into bed with Stefan after a long day of work. And then:

She finds herself dreaming. Leaves crunch underfoot and she’s running, not away from anything but towards someone. _Who?_ There’s a name on the tip of her tongue. Her fingers are stained purple.

She sleeps.

 

**V.**

Bucky makes a friend. Steve is off doing-- whatever it is he’s been doing so much recently. Research, Bucky thinks, though he’s not sure how since it’s unlikely there’s any books in the library on their unique problem. Anyway, Bucky is in a coffee shop overdosing on too-sweet caffeine, only there because Steve had talked to him the previous night about facing his fears or something. (Bucky had dozed off halfway through, but he understands the gist of it. He’s been hiding away in their house for a long time now, too long, and really it doesn’t matter if he’s in the house or not when he dies.)

He shouldn’t be scared of leaving the house, none of the humans seem to be, and their lives are _so_ short. But as much as he tells himself that, he’s still shaking with terror, with the desperate need to make himself _move_ so he can get back to the house where it’s safe, literally only a five minute walk away but he needs to move to do that, which apparently isn’t happening any time soon.

So. He’s been sitting in the same spot with the last dregs of his cold coffee for maybe two hours when someone clears their throat above him.

“May I sit?” He looks up, sees a beautiful woman with dark, kind eyes, smiling down at him. He nods mutely, watches her sit gracefully, crossing her legs and resting her hands on the table: nonthreatening. She reminds him of a friend of Steve’s in another life (he wants to laugh. Of all the human lives to end on it couldn’t have been the one where he had a metal arm and Steve wore tights) and he relaxes, ever so slightly. Her presence is calming.

“I noticed you’ve been sitting there for a while, ah-” she pauses, waits.

“James Barnes,” he says, tucking his shaking fingers under his thighs.

“James, then. I’m Sarah, a psychiatrist at the hospital just across the road and saw that youseemed to be having a little trouble. Did you need some help? Would you like me to call someone for you?” she asks him. He doesn’t answer for a little while, thinks about finally managing to get up but going back to the empty house and feeding Marlow and just. _Sitting_ there, till Steve gets home. But the idea of calling him home from work just because Bucky doesn’t want to be by himself is even worse, so instead he grits his teeth against the steady wash of panic and says,

“No. But could you maybe-- speak. To me? For a bit.”

“Of course I can James.” Sarah says gladly, “Have you heard about the current medical research into Atropa Belladonna? It’s a type of poisonous--

She talks at him for a long time, until his mind is calm and he’s relaxed, until he can eventually begin to join in the conversation with her. When he’s finally able to stand and get himself home, she gives him her number and tells him to call her if he ever needs to talk.

 

**9\. Scream of nations echoing affinity**

Sometimes they talk about morality, discuss the benefits of being good people, what that means to them. For the most part, they live their lives relatively neutral. They don’t go out of their way to do bad things, but neither do they try exceptionally hard to do good. They are too wrapped up in each other usually, their focus so insular that other beings -whose lives are so different than their own it’s almost incomprehensible- aren’t hugely important to them. Obviously there are exceptions though; you live as long as they have and your whole goddamn life becomes an exception.

So every so often they stumble into a life that provides them with different genetics, specific environments, or particular people to nurture their less favorable characteristics. Steve is selfish, sometimes, when his need to protect Bucky or to be with him overtakes his need to be good. He’s also got anger in him (Bucky usually meeting him step for step with his own bitterness) and righteousness, regardless of whether he’s actually _right_ or not. Not the worst personality flaws, not usually at least. It just takes the right set of circumstances and--

They are both girls this time round. They grow up in an orphanage together, go through school together, run away with each other, share their first love with each other (discover they're more interested in girls together), and end up, without much of a protest on their part, in a motel room smeared with blood. It is not their own.

Stella (to Bucky’s ‘Becky’) crouches down to wipe the spray of blood from her glasses with the dead man’s shirt, then replaces them with a huff.

“We were too messy. This is going to be a bitch to clean up,” she says, pulling on some rubber gloves. Becky stares at her from under her bangs, eyebrows raised incredulously.

“We? Babe, there was no _we_ about this one,” Becky says, reaching out to pick some flakes of dried blood from Stella’s hair, wipes her hand on Stella’s shirt, “ _That_ , was all you.” Stella grimaces.

“Okay I may have got a little carried away with that one. I just. Just can’t deal with that shit-” she waves a hand at the pornography they’d found under dead guy’s mattress. It’s awful shit, not remotely legal. Becky has an idea.

“Maybe we should leave this one for the cops to find,” Becky says. Stella’s mouth twists downward in a frown.

“You know I’m not in this for the fame, Becky.”

“No, _no_. That isn’t what I mean. I just think that if we keep killing them and getting rid of their bodies, people assume robbery or mistresses or something. But if people see them for what they _are_ then maybe we can use it as a warning to others,” she says. Stella chews at the inside of her cheek, mulling it over.

“To prevent other guys doing the same shit? Scare them into not acting?” she asks, and her eyes go bright with excitement, “You know that’s-- that might just be the best idea you’ve ever had, Beck.”

-

An unidentified female tips off the police about some commotion in a house, doesn’t give her name. Then other calls start to trickle in; an elderly neighbor calls 911 about red smears on the front door of 47, something scattered across the garden that she can’t quite make out; a man walking his dog calls, shaken, to tell them about a blood smeared door, and pornography littering the garden. When the police arrive they find nothing out of place through the whole house, not until they reach the bedroom.

There they find Mr Mitchell’s body cut up and laid out on his bed, pornography half pulled out of drawers and his internet history open for them to see _exactly_ why the murder had occurred. A post-it note is stuck to computer screen, just says: _You're Welcome._

_-_

As much as Becky wishes they could stay and watch the cops’ reactions from afar, people from the suburbs are nosy, and despite how meticulous Stella is, she isn’t infallible. There is always the risk that they’ll be found out. Thing is, she knows how the news would portray them if they got wind that two girls were killing men; they’d be dubbed ‘those lesbian man haters’ or something, and people would dig into their past, the orphanage, to figure out what horrors there made them what they are.

Thing is. Thing _is,_ they’d only be half wrong. Nothing bad happened to them at the orphanage, not at all. It was what had happened to the other girls that helped flick the switch from anger to hatred (to blind fury). They were never adopted, Stella too volatile, no matter how sweet she looked, and Becky was too intensely protective of Stella to even consider letting themselves be separated. The only time they’d tried, Becky’s foster parents had ended up with a dead cat on the porch and the back door slamming shut behind her as she snuck out and back to the orphanage. They didn’t try again-- turns out foster parents aren’t looking for kids that kill their pets.

So they were never adopted or fostered, but never really had anything to complain about either; aside from the fights that Stella got into, and the one incident with the cat, they were pretty good kids for the most part, and the women who worked at the orphanage let them be. The other girls, not so much. The sweet girls, the pretty ones who would make perfect daughters, they tended to be adopted relatively fast, and were never seen again. Except sometimes they _were_ , and they paid attention to the girls, and noticed how they looked when they came back, how changed they often were. Becky would often sit with the girls, chatting softly, while Stella went to argue with the women in charge. Who, more often than not, shrugged at the accusations and said ‘the girls haven’t said anything’.

Which means that when Stella is eighteen and pushed out into the world with barely a pat on her back, dragging Becky along with her, they need to come up with a way of getting money. Becky’s idea was only the logical next step, really. Who’d miss an old abusive father? So they started with the men they knew from the orphanage, the worst of them, the ones that sent the girls back with bruises on their skin and the light gone from their eyes.

They find them and they watch them for a while, then Becky usually slips poison into their coffee, takes as much money as she can find while she waits for them to die and Stella to cut them up into pieces and dispose of them however she felt was best. (The last time Becky was in charge of bodies she’d tried to push the pieces down the trash disposal. Needless to say, it hadn’t been pretty).

They do manage to go a long time without getting caught. They are in a motel room when it happens, curled up under bed covers against the frigid air. Then suddenly there’s lights and noise and a voice calling for them to come out with their hands above their heads. They stare at each other, breathless, for just a moment. Then they’re moving, getting dressed, grinning wide and feral.

“So, you know that film we watched the other month,” Stella says, pocketing a knife.

“Don’t say it,” Becky replies.

“Okay but, that film, what was it called?” she prompts.

“Bonnie and Clyde,” Becky answers, ignores the increasingly loud shouting from outside.

“Right,” Stella says. She comes forward to press a quick kiss to Becky’s mouth, “So. Bonnie and Clyde, yeah?” Becky huffs and tugs on Stella’s ponytail, says,

“You’re a goddamn cliché, you know that?” But ultimately: “Yeah, Stel. We can do that.”

Becky gets a vague sense of deja vu when she follows Stella through the doorway, like maybe she’s done this before, followed her into death. She wouldn’t be surprised.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay, I've had this finished for a while now, but haven't been able to publish it because of my stupid laptop! Temporary solution means I can finally give you part two though. Spoilery post for triggers and notes [here](http://rrgunns.tumblr.com/post/100286159477/yhic-part-1-notes-trigger-warnings-post).

**** Part Two: Steve  
** **

**10\. An evening full of linnet’s wings**

Steve is just out of college for accounting, working as an intern for an up and coming fashion photographer and volunteering at a local school in hopes that he can somehow figure out what to do with his life. This is one of the times he remembers; he has hundreds and thousands of memories from previous lives crammed into a brain that can barely comprehend it, but none of that _helps_ when he can’t decide what to do with himself. Not for the first time he wonders what Bucky is up to, whether he knows what he’s doing this time round.

Probably. Bucky has always understood himself better than Steve does, seems to be aware and accepting of his flaws in a way Steve could never be. Steve has a _stupid_ tendency to compare himself to his previous lives when he can remember them. So Steve had gone into accounting because he remembered trying and failing at it in a previous life and wanted to be better. Except that was a no go and he barely graduated at _all_ , finding out the hard way that he _seriously_ lacks focus in this life. So now he’s playing with the idea of teaching -definitely loves kids, but is unsure whether he can handle it full time- or fashion photography, which he definitely enjoys, but is sort of doubting his ability to make it into a career.

He is also really goddamn late for work.

It’s a late shoot and he’s regretting his decision to nap after dinner now-- downs the rest of his coffee before he manages to spill it on himself for the third time and throws it in the direction of the nearest bin without looking, then starts sprinting up the stairs. He’s neglected going to the gym recently since he’s been so busy, and he absolutely feels it once he reaches the fourth floor. He slows to a jog when he gets to the sixth, heads through the halls till he reaches the studio, pushes through the doors and--

And--

Okay, so Steve has _heard_ the stories about photographers, heard about coercion and abuse and underage models, but he’d never seen anything like it from Alex, the guy he currently works under. Then again, he’s also never seen the guy work with anything other than girls and it’s abruptly clear to him that it isn’t girls he’s interested in. They don’t notice him at first, the music in the room loud enough that Steve can barely make out what Alex is saying.

He can, though.

Bucky is young, _too_ young, curled up half naked on a couch while Alex takes pictures of him. The lighting isn’t even set up-- which in itself is enough for Steve to see that this isn’t a fashion shoot at all, but Alex’s words make everything so much worse.

“ _Yeah,_ like that, come on,” he says, leans forward to rest a bottle of jack against Bucky’s chest, the condensation dripping onto his skin, “Hike your leg up a little, _god_ your lips are gorgeous. Wait-- take another swig from the bottle. No, no, it’s fine. You won’t get in trouble. There, good boy.” He adds. Bucky’s eyes are wide and scared, but so goddamn _trusting_. He does as he’s told, only clad in the underwear he’s been given, nerves obviously helped by the bottle of jack in his hand, and Alex’s gentle praise. He looks like he’s desperate for it.

“You’re a great kid, you’re gonna be real famous, I promise. I’m gonna put you on the front cover, you just gotta do one thing for me,” Alex says, and reaches for his zipper. Bucky flinches, tries to cover it.

And if Steve ever had a super-villain origin story, _this_ would be it. Every second of every life where Bucky had suffered, been fucked over, been damaged by others; _that_ would be why Steve finally says ‘fuck it’ and writes off every human, every goddamn sentient creature as Not Worth It. Not worth Bucky being hurt.

Instead, he settles for something smaller. He turns off the music and Alex looks up sharply in the ensuing silence, but Steve doesn’t see him, eyes only on Bucky as he makes his way over to the couch. Alex takes that to mean something else.

“Hey, you wanna join in man? Kid is real talented--” he doesn’t get to finish before Steve barrels into him, knocking him to the ground, and everything goes red for a little while.

Alex is quiet when Steve comes back to himself, face bloody and already swelling. He’s breathing fine though, so Steve turns away from him, finally, to look at Bucky. He’s curled in on himself on the couch, watching Steve from behind his knees. He’s also skinny as hell, Steve notes with a frown. And he knows he’s probably older than he seems, but right now Steve can only see a _child_ sitting in front of him, being forced into awful shit for false promises.

“Hey, you’re safe now, okay? I’m not going to let anyone touch you if you don’t want them to,” he says. Bucky manages to pull himself together a little, eyes narrowing.

“Do I know you? Is there a reason you just beat that guy half to death for me?” he asks, and Steve wheezes.

“No, buddy you don’t. I just-- I don’t like bullies is all,” Steve says. He tries not to think about how many times he’s said that before.

“Okay, but you knew him right? He seemed to know you.”

“I work for him.” Steve answers. Then he stares, bewildered, when Bucky barks out a surprised laugh.

“I don’t think you work for him anymore, pal. Hope you have a back-up career,” Bucky says. His lips twitch, and Steve doesn’t fight the urge to smile right back at him, thinking of the kids at the school he’s volunteering at, not that much younger than Bucky must be.

“Yeah actually,” Steve says, “I think I do.”

 

**IV.**

Steve spends a lot of time researching reincarnation; he looks at both scientific and religious theories, sits for hours in the library pouring over books, but ultimately finds nothing he didn’t know already. He and Bucky have both spent time trying to understand themselves over the years, with different levels of success depending on the life they are living _._ There are hundreds of different ideas, but never any facts, never anything concrete that they can look at and say _yeah, that’s us._ He’s not sure why exactly he thinks that he can find answers now, but he tries all the same, shaky and desperate.

Bucky, for his part, seems to be getting _better_. Better than the terrified, withdrawn person he’s been for the past few months at least. Bucky tells him about a woman he’d met at the café across the road, mumbles something about _getting stuck and she helped me not be_ , and in the weeks since has met her half a dozen times to talk. And despite the fact that she’s not helping him in an official capacity, and Bucky can’t tell her truth about his problems, it does genuinely seem to be helping him.

Steve is starting to feel sort-of guilty that he seems to be taking this harder than Bucky is. Bucky seems to be accepting it in a way that Steve just _can’t,_ the idea of living endlessly after he’s gone makes him feel tight and breathless like he could fold in on himself like a black hole. (He wishes he could go back to that life again, wants the giddy excitement for what would come with death, not this oppressive terror).

He thinks about the lives they’ve had together while he’s in bed one night and he’s consumed with regret-- he took too much for granted, they’ve had so much time together and it’s barely occurred to him to savor it while he can before it was lost to him, that he _could_ lose this. And then he feels guilty again that he’s making this about him, when he should be focused entirely on Bucky and how Bucky feels.

How _Bucky_ feels.

He thinks-- he thinks he knows what he has to do.

“ _Bucky_ ,” he says, urgent. Bucky lifts his head from Steve’s chest, blinking blearily up at him, makes a questioning sound.

“I know what to do Buck. It’s taken a while but I know, now. It’s okay, _I know.”_

**11\. Mountains taken up and thrown to sea**

Steve kneels before the screen in the confessional, hands resting loosely on his thighs. His heart is hammering so hard in his chest he wouldn’t be surprised if it could be heart echoing around the entire church.

“Bienvenido,” comes a voice through the screen, rough and familiar.

“Uh, hello. I don’t know if I should speak in Spanish or, um,” he pauses, rubs his sweaty palms down his thighs, then recites, “En el nombre del Padre, y del Hijo, y del Espíritu Santo. Ha sido, uh, lo siento… I- I don’t know much more Spanish than that Father.”

“Ah, American? English is fine with me,” the priest says. His voice is like _home_ and suddenly Steve can’t help himself, stands and pushes out of the confessional, pulling open the other door and: _there_. He’s a lot older than Steve, his skin dark and his hair black; almost as black as the cassock he wears, but it’s undoubtedly Bucky. He looks surprised and a little annoyed at first, then he sees Steve and it becomes shock, and something closer to horror.

He says, “ _Steve,”_ but instead of relief or happiness, it sounds closer to a benediction.

Steve goes cold, thinks, _this is going to get ugly._

Because sometimes they don’t remember until they make contact. Whether it’s through seeing or hearing each other or something different, every so often they’ll live their lives without remembering, only to stumble across each other and have everything come rushing back to them at once. It’s usually a blessing, not having to grow up with the burden of memory, but then finding each other and obtaining the knowledge of their lives previously. This time around, Steve guesses it’s going to be more of a curse. He’s only young, just gone nineteen and traveling in Spain for a gap year when he stumbles across a pamphlet on a church open day.

Just so happens that they’d picked the attractive, _relatable_ priest to be the face of local church, and just so happens he’s Bucky. Steve had locked himself in a toilet stall in the café he was in and spent a good hour panting wetly into his hands while he tried to calm his breathing, just until he could actually stand and walk without passing out. Then he went home, crawled into bed and spent two days readjusting, before finally looking up whereabouts Bucky’s church is on google maps.

As it turns out, barging in on a catholic priest and giving them the knowledge that reincarnation is real, most of what they believe is false, and they’ve spent the last millennia in what is technically a homosexual relationship is not--

Not a good idea. Which Steve becomes aware of, when Bucky pushes past him like he wants to run but ends up falling to his knees and throwing up on the cold stone floor, shaking like regaining the memories is _hurting_ him. And maybe it is, to have to reconcile all he knows, everything he believes with what is essentially heresy. Steve has no idea what to do in this situation.

He places a tentative hand on Bucky’s shoulder, says, “Uh, Bucky, are you,” but he shakes it off and stands, swiping at his mouth.

“It’s Jeremiah actually. But I guess Bucky is fine,” he pauses then, tilts his head to the side and laughs low in his throat. It’s hysterical: ugly, and Steve doesn’t know what to do, desperately wishes he knew how to make this right. But after a moment Bucky composes himself, asks, “Have you ever studied the bible Steve? Learned about the prophet Jeremiah?”

Steve shakes his head no.

Bucky tells him “We call him the weeping prophet. The Lord told him to go to the people of Israel to tell them that God had turned against them in their sin, and he spent forty years doing that without any success. Turned out to be too much for him and he lost faith, if even only for a little while. He found God again in the end.” Bucky smiles at him, bleak and hopeless. “I wish I could be like him in spirit as well as name, but I think, in this case, maybe my stream has run dry.”

Steve doesn’t entirely understand what Bucky is saying, is for the first time in a very long time completely unsure of how to act around him. So he stays quiet under Bucky’s heavy gaze, feeling guilty of his own ignorance, till finally Bucky asks, “How old are you Steve?”

Steve is surprised at the question, but answers, “Nineteen.” Bucky winces, but seems to relax minutely.

“Right, good. You look younger,” then adds as an afterthought, “Though I guess you always do when you’re small, don’t you? I’m sorry, Steve-- is it even Steve here? This is just, a lot to, _fuck._ I’m almost forty, by the way. Been in the church since I was seventeen.” He says it desperately, running calloused fingers through his dark hair, then: “Would you come to my room with me?”

Steve’s sort of surprised at the suggestion, and more than a little concerned that it won’t help at all, but doesn’t hesitate in agreeing. He’s desperate to help in any way he can, and if that means guilty, shameful sex that’ll leave him feeling used and Bucky even more conflicted, he’ll go along with it. Anything to help smooth the pain from the crease of Bucky’s brow, the tightness at the corner of his lips, if even only for a little while.

He follows Bucky outside and across a courtyard to a small stone building. Inside there is only a small kitchen, a bathroom, and what functions as both Bucky’s bedroom and a living room; a bed, dresser, small sofa and a TV are the only things in there. Steve starts to strip when Bucky closes the door behind him, pulling his shirt over his head and throwing it to the floor. He gets as far as unbuttoning his pants when suddenly Bucky’s hands are on his wrists, gripping tight enough that Steve feels his bones grind.

“What the _fuck_ are you doing?” he hisses.

“I just thought- I thought we were going to--”

“You thought we were what? Going to have _sex_? Five minutes after meeting each other? And I am _twice_ your age Steve. I made a _vow_ , whatever that means,” Bucky says.

“You’re the one who invited me to your fucking room!”

“Yes, to _talk_ , Steve. You don’t think maybe we have some stuff we need to talk about?”

“Oh for Christ’s sake,” Steve feels himself flushing red with frustration and no small amount of embarrassment. He shakes off Bucky’s hands and does up his pants, pulling his shirt back on and perching on the arm of the sofa. “Maybe you should be clearer about your intentions then, _Father_.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything, his hands hanging loose at his sides, his breathing harsh and loud in the stark quiet of the room. Steve watches micro-expressions flit across his face; anger, frustration, remorse and--

Steve thinks that maybe he should unbuckle his pants again for a second, because Bucky _does_ look hungry, and desperate, and Steve thinks that forty years is a long time to wait just to deny himself. He goes to hop off the sofa but Bucky finally moves, steps forward to press a hand against Steve’s chest.

“ _No,_ ” he says, then: “Your prurience never ceases to amaze me, Steve.” And Steve would laugh, or maybe argue, if he weren’t already occupied; because for the first time since a life time ago, Bucky _smiles_ , and Steve wants desperately to kiss him. He imagines the hand on his chest moving up and up till it curls around the back of his neck, and Bucky leaning in and capturing his mouth in a chaste kiss, maybe only at the very corner before leaning back and curling his lips into that goddamn time-spanning, all-consuming smile, and Steve wouldn’t be able to help himself.

He imagines tugging him in and kissing him properly, imagines exploring new bodies on worn old sheets, undressing him and trailing fingers down his chest, his thighs. Imagines pressing his lips to the head of Bucky’s cock and smiling up at him under the warm glow of the setting sun, watching dust motes settle on his skin.

He imagines running a bath for them both, curling together under too-hot water and running a cloth over Bucky’s feet after a the day spent standing. He imagines pressing away the knots of muscle from Bucky’s back, rediscovering each other and finding the differences and the similarities that follow them through death. He imagines submerging himself under the water for a moment to hear the echo of his heart beat in his ears, rabbit-fast with anticipation.

He imagines many things, but in the end does nothing. It is clearly not the time (there may never be, this time round), and he respects Bucky enough that he won’t push him. They have an eternity ahead of them, after all. Just because he’s young and horny and tempted by the white collar at Bucky’s throat doesn’t mean he can’t control himself. Instead, he settles back against the sofa with a sigh.

“Okay, well. What do you want to talk about?” he asks. Bucky settles down next to him, close enough that their thighs touch.

“You are remarkably transparent in this life Steve. Someone raised you to be honest.” Bucky says. His fingers feel heavy when he presses them against Steve’s hand. “We’ve never agreed on the existence or non-existence of a God, have we?”

“ _God’s_ , plural. We’ve never agreed on much of anything within the realms of religion, monotheistic or otherwise.” Steve concedes.

“So then maybe--”

Steve winces, says “No, Buck. We can’t go down that road, and you know it. Maybe there’s something bigger, maybe there _is_ reason behind everything. But trying to find understanding in _our_ existence through the scope of _human_ religion isn’t going to get us anywhere. _You know that._ Just because you’ve spent forty years not knowing doesn’t mean you can ignore it Buck.”

Bucky’s exhales slowly, and his nails leave behind crescent shaped marks in Steve’s palm when he lifts his hand to run his fingers through his hair again; a nervous habit, apparently exclusive to this body.

“Okay Steve,” he says softly. “Okay.”

 

**12\. See the sights, the endless summer nights**

Time passes, they are reborn, and then:

"You're so pretty babe, _so_ goddamn pretty," Bucky mumbles, breathing open-mouthed and wet against Stevie's neck. One hand is curled around Stevie's dick and stroking absentmindedly while they focus on Stevie's chest, flicking a thumb over one nipple then taking it in their mouth, gently sucking and tugging with their teeth. Stevie arches into it, keening, briefly thinks she's glad that her wrists are tied above her head because they'd for sure be tugging at Bucky's hair if they were free.

"Baby girl, you're gorgeous, you make the best sounds, _god_ ," Bucky says breathlessly, their chin resting on Stevie's chest. They rub a finger through the pre-come at the tip of Stevie’s dick, smile as she shudders, toes curling. "You can come in a bit, you just gotta wait a little. You gonna be good for me babe?" Stevie whines at that, thinks _yes, fuck yes I can be good_ , but ultimately stays quiet behind the gag in her mouth. Not that it matters, since Bucky seems to understand anyways.

"You're always good for me, such a good girl," Bucky says softly. They kiss their way down Stevie's body, wriggling until they can get between her legs, sucking a bruise on the inside of Stevie's thigh, kissing it, then starting on another. Bucky bites and worries till there's a flower of red blooming against her skin. They sit back and sigh, their pupils blown wide when they look up at Stevie.

"You look so lovely in bruises, baby. One day I'm gonna cover you in them, head to toe," Bucky brushes a finger along Stevie's jaw, "Put one right here, so everyone can see. Mmm, could you imagine Peter's face?" they say, laughing at whatever they sees on Stevie's face. "No talking about flatmates in bed, right, sorry, I'll just-" Bucky tugs at Stevie's legs till they're wrapped around their waist, ankles crossed against the small of their back. Then Bucky grabs a pillow and puts it underneath Stevie, pausing for a second to look up to where her hands are tied at the top of the bed.

"I won't be able to see your hands, so if you wanna stop you use your feet like we agreed, yeah?" Bucky waits for Stevie to nod before ducking their head down and parting the cheeks of her ass enough that they can lay their tongue flat against Stevie's rim. Her hips twitch involuntarily and Bucky's nose bumps against her perineum, huffing a laugh and reaching up a hand to lay against Stevie's abdomen, wordlessly telling her to _stay._ Then Bucky licks a stripe from the small of Stevie's back to her scrotum and it's all Stevie can do not to come there and then. She groans loudly though, hopes it gets the point across, that she's close. Bucky just continues licking, tiny little things against the ring of muscle until Stevie's relaxed enough that they can push her tongue in with ease. Bucky spreads their hand across Stevie's side while they do it, slowly strokes up and down her body in time with the thrust of their tongue. After a little while Bucky presses their middle finger in alongside their tongue, pushing in teasingly slow then crooking their finger and licking at the same time.

Stevie's toes curl at the burst of pleasure, whining high and long, and Bucky pulls their head back a little.

"Whenever you want baby," Bucky says against her skin and finally, _finally_ takes Stevie’s dick in their other hand, stroking and thumbing at the tip, pressing against her prostate, and Stevie couldn't stop herself coming if she tried. She mewls into the gag, shaking and clenching her thighs around Bucky while they stroke her steadily through it, feels like she's floating away from her body.

-

When she comes back to herself, slowly, her jaw's aching and wrists are tingling. She cracks her eyes open and sees Bucky's face above her, intently focused on massaging the feeling back into Stevie's hands. The gag's also gone, and her stomach isn't itchy with dried come, so she must've been passed out a little longer than she realised.

"Asshole move by the way," they say nonchalantly, eyes still on Stevie's hands. "You totally left me hanging, didn't even return the favor before you passed out on me."

"S'ry, " Stevie mumbles. She closes her eyes and stretches her body out like a cat, nuzzles her face against Bucky's stomach. She's already halfway back to sleep when Bucky presses a kiss to her temple and begins to run their fingers gently through Stevie's hair.

"Nah, 's no worries," Bucky says, "We'll get to me later."

 

**III.**

“It’s okay, _I know.”_ Steve had said to Bucky, had watched Bucky’s face as he blinked away sleep and tried to comprehend what Steve was saying to him. Bucky worried at his lip, eyebrows furrowed, and asked Steve how he’d do it.

So Steve had explained, not how, but _what_ he’d do. Explained that he would stop his reincarnations, would prevent himself being reborn so that this could be his last life too. They could die together-- for real this time. Bucky had been horrified. He’d pushed himself up from where he’d been dozing on Steve’s chest, dug his nails in into Steve’s shoulders hard enough to leave little red marks behind.

“Don’t do this for me,” he’d said, “I don’t want you to have to do this for me Steve.” But his voice had wavered, unsure. The idea of Steve alone forever wasn’t a comforting alternative.

Steve had shuffled around till he was sitting, removed Bucky’s fingers from where they dig into his shoulders, taking them between his own.

“Listen Buck. You gotta know that this is me being _selfish_. It’s not just for you-- believe me when I say that I could never live without you. This is the best thing for _both of us_. Wouldn’t you do the same for me?” He’d said it knowing the answer already. Of course Bucky would do it for him, there was no question. Bucky hadn’t answered though, just stared and stared till finally Steve had said, “You’re always talking about following me Buck. Maybe it’s time I followed you for a change.”

And Bucky had shivered then, shifted forward till his chest pressed against Steve’s own and Steve felt the cold tip of his nose against his throat. They’d stayed like that, breathing in time, till Bucky’s had evened out and he’d fallen asleep.

Hours later, when weak dawn light begins to filter through the window, Steve is still awake. His legs have gone numb under Bucky’s weight and his head aches with the need for sleep. His breathing is shallow while he tells himself that this is their only option.

 

**13\. Fire-opal clasped on a fine gold chain**

 

18 August 1917

_The most extraordinary thing happened today. A young man came to visit me in my room asking for autographs. Naturally, I obliged, asking him some questions about himself. He introduced himself as James Owen. He was shy, and reluctant to give details, but did admit to trying his hand at poetry sometimes. I offered to take a look, though I did not expect much, I have to admit._

_Imagine my surprise then when he presented me with a handful of crumpled drafts so exquisite they almost bought me to tears. His writing is unrefined, to be sure, but with some tutelage (that I did not hesitate to offer. I could not bear to never see his prose again) he may very well become one of the greatest poets of our generation. I told him so at the time, adding that he would come second only to myself, and he laughed at my joke though it was terrible, then blushed at the praise I gave him, clearly disbelieving. I decided then that I could not let him slip through my fingers and into obscurity; it has become imperative to me that others see his work, and he see for himself how good he truly is._

_I hope my eagerness to see him again was not too plain on my face. He seemed desperately unsure of his own writing and I fear I may have been a touch too ardent._

_-S_

 

28 August

He’s run his fingers through his hair maybe seven times since he knocked on James’ door less than three minutes ago and received no answer. He knocks again. He watches the long hand on his watch click forward.

“Well,” he says to the empty corridor, casting a glance around himself and back at the door in front of him. “I suppose that’s that then.” He brushes lint from his -perhaps a little too formal- jacket and makes to leave when the door swings open, revealing James, disheveled and bleary with sleep, half the buttons on his pajama shirt done up wrong in his apparent haste to get dressed. Steve hides his smile behind his fingers.

“I’m assuming this isn’t a good time?” he asks, but James shakes his head, gesturing for Steve to enter his room.

“Now is fine, I didn’t sleep much last night and so overslept this morning.” He perches on his single bed, and Steve settles himself on the small sofa opposite him. He refrains from making a comment about James’ lack of sleep, knowing he doesn’t much like to talk about the nightmares that plague him at night. Instead, he turns his head towards the sun that leaks through the half-drawn curtains to warm his face, and hums,

“We never got to finish our discussion yesterday.” James had burst into his room after lunch, red in the face and brandishing a crumpled newspaper. He’d spent the better part of an hour hissing about the ignorance of war poets who had not experienced war, stabbing at the (admittedly dry) words with a snapped pencil he’d broken earlier in his frustration. If Steve wasn’t equally incensed by the poets who used faith to push people towards death, he’d have perhaps allowed himself to find James’ anger endearing. Instead he’d lain a calming hand on his shoulder and said,

“Show me something better.” And he had; they’d spent the rest of the afternoon passing first and second and third drafts between each other, the final poem something that even James, who still often doubted himself, could admit was beautiful. Truthfully Steve had had not much to do with it, only suggesting an alternative word or slight rephrasing here and there, but he had stared down at the poem, scrawled in James’ shaky handwriting, and felt nothing short of _awe_ , that he could have in some way been a part of its creation.

After supper they had retired to his room again, sat opposite each other on Steve’s bed, and ended up discussing at first the prospect of publishing James’ poetry, then moving on to talking about their distaste for hired poets, and then the religion they so often pushed in their desperation to get young men to join the cause. Steve can easily admit to his atheism, has spoken of it freely for years, and did so with James, but when he had pressed for _his_ stance on the subject, James had closed off, and had left him for bed not long after.

So now he watches James, waits for him to pick up where they left off or shut down again and try to avoid the topic. Maybe Steve is pushing too much, but he’s curious, and James fascinates him. He keeps his face tilted towards the sunlight, his eyes on James, and isn’t disappointed when he sighs, rubs his hands down his thighs and says,

“No, I don’t believe in God, which is what you’re asking, isn’t it? You’d think otherwise reading your poetry, but as a man you are completely unsubtle, _honestly_. I used to be catholic, even tried to be a cleric, but was thankfully unsuccessful. I gave,” he pauses, clears his throat, “I gave up on God about the same time I realised I much preferred male company to women’s. And if God truly despises me because of that preference, I’m not sure I care for his approval.”

Steve inhales sharply at that, he can’t help himself. James had just admitted to something that could very well _ruin_ him. If he’d said it to a doctor, or another man, who wasn’t, who isn’t-- he can’t bear to think of what could have happened. He wants to lecture James, perhaps, wants to ask how he can be so _naïve_ after all he’s been through, to think that admitting such a thing could possibly be safe. But he can’t say all that, can’t risk lecturing James after he’d put so much trust in him. So instead he nods, tilts his head back and says,

“Couldn’t have said it better myself.” And that’s that.

 

06 September

Steve may only be at the hospital for political reasons (it turned out the higher-ups weren’t a fan of a publicly anti-war soldier that turned down his purple cross, who’d have thought) but that doesn’t mean that he came away from the war completely unscathed. James had it worse, of course, having spent days trapped in a trench with pieces of a former friend scattered around him, he still had nightmares more nights than not, and he was quiet, stuttering sometimes when his memories got the best of him. And while Steve was not largely affected by his experiences, he had still been there, when men died and died and died around him, and it does leak into his dreams more often than he would like.

On a particularly bad night he wakes himself up screaming, tangled in sweaty sheets and vibrating with the memory of his nightmare: of accepting the purple cross, going to take it but finding bodies underfoot and a man with a shotgun wound for a face saying, ‘ _Peace is upon us, step over the dead boys, don’t trip!’_ and he tries to, but finds his feet tangled in viscera, and he falls forward into the piles of broken bodies and--

He’s shaking so hard his teeth are clacking together, and the _tic tic tic tic_ in the otherwise silent room jars him fully awake, but doesn’t help ground him. He continues to shiver, humming through his teeth as he tries to get a hold of his breathing. He stays like that for maybe a minute before he realizes he isn’t going to be able to calm himself to get back to sleep. Instead he pushes himself from his bed and onto his feet, not sparing a glance for the state he must be in, just making his way unthinkingly down the corridor and taking the stairs three at a time till he reaches James’ door.

He doesn’t stop to think, simply steps into the darkness of the room, stumbling over to James’ bed and curling up at his feet, letting the proximity to another person, a _living_ person, whose warmth slowly leaks into his skin and calms him enough that he can fall back asleep.

He doesn’t wake up till after 1100 the next morning, fingers pressed gently against his shoulder, and he opens his eyes to find James watching him, steadily.

He says, “You missed breakfast,” which is surprising, since Steve hasn’t slept in past 0900 since he joined the army, then, “I thought you might need the sleep more. Would you like to join me for an early lunch?”

 

28 September

The weather is still warm enough that they can sit outside in the late afternoon, playing croquet or writing together at the far end of the garden, where the hedges obscure them from the view of the hospital. One particular evening they’re watching the sun go down over the trees that frame the garden, sharing James’ last cigarette between them.

“You’re planning on going back aren’t you?” Steve asks suddenly, smoke curling around his nostrils. They’ve spent almost every day together for a month now, and he's not unobservant. Even with his nerves shot to hell, James is not a man who will willingly sit out on fighting when his country needs him. And he doesn’t understand it himself, but the idea of James back at the front causes dread to pool in his stomach, brings up memories of the dead boys they’ve both written about in their poetry. He has to bite his lip against a protest when James only nods, fingers shaking as he puts the cigarette to his mouth.

Instead, Steve does something stupid.

“Well,” he says briskly, standing from his chair, “We haven’t much time then,” and he tugs the cigarette from lax fingers, stubbing it out on the ash tray, then sets himself neatly on James’ lap. There was a reason his men called him ‘Mad Jack’; he was prone to doing dangerous things just because it felt like the right thing to do. In combat it was venturing into no-mans land, raiding German trenches at night with just his gun for backup. But now--

James’ hands go to his waist automatically as Steve straddles him and he opens his mouth to say something, then closes it, shaking his head. His grip goes tight for a second, and before Steve can do so himself, James bridges the gap between them and presses his lips to Steve’s. It’s soft, and hesitant, and Steve quickly deepens it by licking into James’ mouth, moaning when he reciprocates. There is silence for a while, only broken by heavy breathing and small noises in the backs of their throats, till Steve pulls back, panting.

“I’ll have a go first then shall I?” he says, and reaches for James’ shorts.

 

11 October

It’s a miracle they don’t get caught, really. They’d spent most of their time together anyway, but now they are rarely apart, reckless in their need to make the most of the short time they have together. They both know they’ll be leaving soon, but avoid talking about it in favor of stealing kisses every chance they can; behind the bushes at the garden peripheries, when they play croquet alone together, at night in their rooms-- and more often than not those kisses lead to hours of avoidance, not that he’d complain.

When they aren’t pressing gun-calloused fingers to scarred skin, scraping friction burns against thighs and exploring each other desperately, they continue to write. Steve doesn’t have to do much to James’ poems when he hands them over now, as more often than not the creased pages of his journal have within them poetry that defies description. Steve isn’t one for hyperbole, but when he reads James’ latest poem, he’s hard pressed to find a single fault within it. It’s sharp, and harsh, and Steve’s not sure he’ll be able to publish it any time soon, but it’s incredible.

 

14 October

Steve can’t help but think of the poem when James tells him one night that he’ll be out of the hospital by the months end, and that he plans to go back to the front.

“You _know_ what I think of the war, but what’s done is done Steve. It continues, and men are dying, and I can’t sit home and wallow whilst they do.” And Steve can’t argue with him, isn’t even sure why he’s trying when he’s planning on going back himself. Only he thinks of the poems, and of his nightmares, and would much rather James be home and safe and _not dead._ He tries to word his fears, but James only shakes his head, grimacing.

“I’ll stay behind if you do.” And that’s the end of it.

He dreams of gas, and he dreams of death, but when he wakes James only pulls him against his chest and whispers _I’m sorry_ over and over, like a mantra.

 

10 April 1965

Sassoon: No, we never really said goodbye to each other. Not that we couldn’t have. We just (pauses) we just agreed it would be easier. Of course that wasn’t the case at all, when it came down to it. We wrote to each other after he left Craiglockheart-- the hospital, and most people have seen the letters he wrote to me now. So you must know how strongly he felt, he compared his love for me to that of his love for _Keats_ (laughs) and he meant just as much to me. He means just as much to me.

Interviewer: Some people have questioned why you abandoned the effort to publish his poems after his death. Could you tell us about that?

Sassoon: The thing is (pauses) Well, I did give his poetry to Edith-

Interviewer: Edith Sitwell?

Sassoon: Yes. I gave his poetry to her, which turned out to be a good decision, as even without me on board she published _Poems_ in 1920, which I’ll forever be thankful for. But his (pauses) his death is like an unhealed wound for me, and the ache of it has been with me ever since, and during that time, when the world as a whole was trying to move on, I just couldn’t do it. I couldn’t surround myself in his poetry, because I knew I’d start thinking back and coming up with ‘what ifs’ and ‘could’ve beens’. I wanted _him_ back, not his poems.

Interviewer: I’m sorry, I know this must be hard. I understand you tried to prevent him from going back?

Sassoon: I told him I’d stab him in his damn leg if he even tried. That was the only thing we argued about, and we did often, but in the end he knew I was going to go back and he said he’d only stay behind if I would. And there wasn’t any way I could do that, so he went. He went and he got himself shot a week before the war ended. I’ll never forgive him for that. We had so little time together in the grand scheme of things. A few months in 1917, and they mean more to me than the entire half a century I’ve lived since.

 

**II.**

It isn’t perfect. Bucky still panics sometimes, about Steve’s death as well as his own now, even though he insists that not having to think of Steve drifting through time alone (or an eternity after death on his own) helps him through the nightmares.

So they carry on as they have been, living a human life, so incredibly ordinary that Steve _aches_ with it sometimes. He thinks of what they _have_ had, how big they’ve been and what they’ve done in other bodies and universes and hates, a little, that he spends his days tattooing flesh under bright fluorescent lighting that’s actually beginning to ruin his eyesight. It’s not that he doesn’t like his job, art is something he tends to towards more often than not, and that he has a job halfway involved with it is great. It’s just so painfully mundane compared to what they _have_ been. He isn’t sure if it hurts Bucky as much as it does him that the last life they’ll have is this one.

When he tries to bring it up with Bucky one night over dinner, pretending he doesn’t see him sneaking Marlow scraps under the table, Bucky just shrugs vaguely.

“I’d prefer a boring life to something exciting if it means we’re happy and _safe_ , Steve.” He picks a bit of leftover fish from his plate, drops it to the floor and smiles, bittersweet, “Think of all the terrible things that have happened to us, of what this life could have been, and you’re telling me you’re unsatisfied with a little mundanity?”

“Oh,” Steve says, chastised, “I didn’t think of it that way.” And he hadn’t really, only dwelled on what could’ve been better, but never how lucky they’ve been in this life. Steve might have to retire early if glasses don’t correct his eyesight well enough, and his asthma is something he hasn’t really been able to shake, even if he did manage to obtain a growth spurt of sorts. He’s not as big as he can be, but he’s healthy, and Bucky is too for the most part. Both of their parents are still alive, they have friends, and Marlow, and they have enough money to get by. Really, he should be thankful.

He looks at Bucky, whose cheeks are flushed with a little too much wine, who has soft eyes and softer skin, and when Steve leans across the table to draw him into a kiss, he knows he’s been forgiven.

“I’m stupid,” Steve mumbles against Bucky’s lips, “Sorry.” Bucky only smiles, pushing Marlow’s head away when he tries to sneak the food from Bucky’s plate.

 

**14\. Thunder ‘neath the spring clovers**

Sometimes they could barely be called lives. Bucky is a bitter wind, a flurry of snow that melts on tongues; Steve is warm sand pulled with the sea, droplets of sweat on the backs of knees (and they still find each other, curl together to create the in-between: soft grass and budding daffodils, the crunch of leaves underfoot). He thinks of it sometimes, what it is to feel vast and endless when he’s consumed by how small he is now, how contained. How ephemeral _._

It helps.

 

**I.**

Steve is two months past his fiftieth birthday. He’s running some errand, half way home when the road gets icy and there’s a car, and his bike, and the inevitable. The second he sees the car he understands, his teeth ache and his muscles burn and he _knows._ It slips and they collide, and he’s thrown off his bike and into the metal railing that borders the road. Something in his back shatters and he can taste blood on his tongue. His surroundings fade out. This is where his story ends.

Bucky’s heart doesn’t last much longer and he follows suit no more than a few weeks later, joining Steve in oblivion.

 

Except--

 

For two beings who had a million different lives to only have one (desperately mundane, awfully abrupt) ending is perhaps too painful a thought. Maybe they go together in a crash, and maybe there’s a musical on the radio. Maybe there’s a snake and a boot and a holiday that ends too fast. Maybe the house burns one night when cookies lie forgotten in the oven, and Marlow is pulled from the flames by gentle hands wrapped in gloves, furrowed brows staring down at a dog smeared with ash, and they think _shit, poor thing,_ and say,

“It’s okay buddy, I know. I’m gonna take care of you since your parents can’t any more, okay? C’mon.” Maybe the dog misses fish under the table and runs at 6am, but maybe he lives long enough to forget.

Maybe there’s a plane crash, or maybe it’s old age, or poisoned berries that taste like winter, but maybe the _how_ doesn’t matter. What happens next, what happens beyond the curtains drawn-- perhaps only that matters. Whether they were wrong, and wake up in different bodies only to meet again, or if they are both consumed by death together.

Or--

 

Or maybe Steve had been lying. Maybe Steve had lain awake in his bed and realised that Bucky would die, and he would not, and that Bucky thinking they could at least join each other in death was the biggest comfort he could give him.

So Steve _does_ slip on the ice, and Bucky’s heart _does_ give out within the month. But then--

 

Somewhere in the depths of the universe, a woman looks down at the soft curve of her belly and smiles, exasperated.

“If the kicking is any indication, he’s gonna be exactly like his mama. A goddamn firecracker,” she says. The nurse smiles while she squeezes some gel onto her hands, rubs it into the woman’s skin.

“C _old_ ,” she gasps, then after a pause: “Its weird y’know. I feel like he’s this fully formed person already, someone to be unleashed on the world, and I’m just the transport to get him there.” The nurse smiles indulgently and continues working.

“I know I sound like every other first-time mother Marie, but I gotta tell you, we ain’t ready for this boy. He’s _different_.”

She falls silent when she sees the shadow on the screen in front of her, sees her baby for perhaps the last time before she’ll be giving birth to him; before her and Grace will be able to _hold_ him, in their arms.

“I think his name is Steve,” she says suddenly, not sure where she pulled it from but absolutely certain that it’s right. It’s _him_.

She looks at the screen, hears the steady heart-beat of her child echo through the room, and feels abruptly like she’s missing something. A feeling of desperate sadness washes over her, making her eyes prick with tears and her hands tremble where they rest on her belly. It comes out of nowhere, blindsiding her, and she couldn’t explain it if she tried. Just that there’s something missing, and she _aches_ with it.

And maybe that’s the beginning.

**Author's Note:**

> Sort of not really spoilery warning for a lot of (so much) main character death and discussions of it, as well as canon-typical violence such as amputation, and references to things like suicide, transphobia and so on. (Also a very codependent unhealthy relationship possibly controlled by ~fate~ that I don't condone in any way.) There are warnings specific to different lives though, so I've made a handy post that contains notes and warnings for each part, so if you want to skip you can! The parts with titles are self contained so aren't absolutely necessary to the fic :) [**Click here for the warnings post.**](http://rrgunns.tumblr.com/post/100286159477/yhic-part-1-notes-trigger-warnings-post)
> 
> A Mix for part one [here](http://rrgunns.tumblr.com/post/100361588757/mix-for-my-stucky-reincarnation-au-1-the-rockll) if you wanna listen. Title is from Scarlett Thomas' _End of Mr Y_ , one of my favourite books.


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